NEVER TOO LATE

CATHY KELLY

Evie is a hopeless romantic who's
never let her hair down, and marrying
Simon isn't going to help. Her sister
Cara's a walking disaster when it
comes to relationships; and her best
friend Olivia is married to a man who
doesn't appreciate her.

When they all go home to Ballymoreen for Christmas, Evie's father
announces that he's getting remarried. Evie feels like she's reached
rock bottom. But it's never too late for things to get better - and a
guest at her father's wedding is about to change their lives forever..,

'Plenty of sparky humour' The Times
'Sharply observed and readable' Woman's Realm
'A tour-de-force of the Jilly Cooper genre' Lifetimes
'Covering topics close to every woman's heart with vivacious
humour' Irish Post

'Funny and clever' Sunday World

'Move over Maeve Binchy - Ireland could have a new writing
queen' Star
Cathy Kelly is the No. 1 bestselling author of Woman to
Woman and She's the One, both of which spent several
months on The Irish Times and The Sunday Times bestseller lists and were widely praised. Cathy Kelly is a
journalist for the Sunday World newspaper in Dublin and
she lives in Co. Wicklow.
Praise for Cathy Kelly's previous bestsellers:
'Plenty of sparky humour'	The Times
'A compulsive read'	Woman's Weekly

'All the ingredients of the blockbuster are here ... a
page turner'	Sunday Independent

'Sharply observed and readable'	Woman's Realm

"Covering topics close to every woman's heart with
vivacious good humour'	Irish Post

"A tour-de-force of the Jilly Cooper genre' Lifetimes
Also by Cathy Kelly


Woman to Woman
She's the One

Never Too Late



Cathy Kelly


HEADLINE
Copyright © 1999 Cathy Kelly

The right of Cathy Kelly to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in 1999
by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

First published in paperback in 2000
by HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means without the prior written
permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.

ISBN 0 7472 6058 3

Typeset by
Letterpart Limited, Reigate, Surrey

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

HEADLINE BOOK PUBLISHING
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LONDON NW1 3BH
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www. hodderheadline.com
CHAPTER ONE

The breathless sound of 'Santa Baby' trickled from the
sales office's radio next door, a soft child-like voice singing
about wanting a yacht, a flat and a string of race horses. At
least it was better than 'White Christmas' which Evie had
heard about ten times over the past week and which she
was now practically singing in her sleep. If Ring Crosby
hadn't been dead, she'd have been tempted to kill him.

Evie took a moment to stretch her fingers over the computer keyboard. She was tired; she'd been in the office since eight, typing most of that time, in between explaining
Microsoft Word to the new junior who'd sworn a hole in a pot she was fluent in it during her interview. From the way she had gazed blankly during most of the morning, Evie wondered if the girl was even fluent in English, never mind computer language.
The fragrant scent of Javan Blue coffee drifted out from
the sales office. Evie sniffed the air longingly. She'd have
killed for a cup of coffee, the sensation of warm, full
bodied caffeine was just what she needed to give her an
energy boost. But she couldn't have any.
She was on fruit tea - preferably lemon - and a litre and
a half of water every day. How else was she going to bare
her bum and thighs in a bikini on honeymoon if she didn't
get rid of some of the cellulite?
From behind, her rear looked like a relief map of the
moon - not the sort of thing to expose to all and sundry on
the romantic isle of Crete. Unless lunar landscaped bums
suddenly became the latest holiday 'must-have', on a par
with a simply knotted sarong, sun-kissed skin and jelly flip
flops.
'Getting rid of cellulite isn't simply a two-week thing,
its a way of life,' the beautician had said bossily the
previous week. 'Especially when you're getting older. Over
thirty-fives have to be more careful, you know,' she'd
added meaningfully.
Evie would have liked to have asked how the hell the
beautician - twenty-two at a pinch - could speak so
confidently about cellulite and over thirty-fives. But she
didn't. It was probably the same as just about every other
attribute - after thirty-five, everything got shrivelled,
wrinkled, droopy and smaller. Except for stomachs and
waists, which got miles bigger.
Determined not to look like a whale-sized lump of lard
in her bikini, Evie had drawn up an anti-cellulite plan
which would give her just over nine months to turn her
orange-peeled rear end into a smooth, supple, peach
skinned thing fit for exposure. Over one week into the
no-coffee-except-on-special-occasions regime, Evie felt
very virtuous. But, God, it was hard.
She tried to ignore the captivating smell of the percolator
and stretched her arms and shoulders in preparation for
another assault on the word processor.
As she flexed tired fingers, the fluorescent office light
caught her solitaire ring and it sparkled richly, the single
carat gleaming in the light. She held her hand out, admiring
the fat gold band with the simple, large diamond.
Simon had wonderful taste, although the ring was bigger
than she'd have chosen herself. But when your boyfriend took you out to dinner and presented you with an engagement
ring which had probably cost as much as your
rackety, second-hand Ford Fiesta, you didn't quibble over
whether the ring looked too big on your rather slender
fingers.
'My darling, this is wonderful. I've never been to a
Michelin-starred restaurant before . . .'
He looked deep into her eyes, his piercing blue ones
searching the depths of her hazel eyes, his handsome face
alight with adoration. I wanted to take you somewhere
special because I've got the most important question to ask
you.'
A strand of lustrous dark hair had escaped from the elegant
knot at the nape of her neck and he gently twisted it behind
her ear before his fingers traced the contours of her face
He loved her face, loved kissing the petite upturned nose
and the full, ripe mouth; adored tracing the fine eyebrows that
arched over her wide, heavily fringed hazel eyes.
'I should have known you were a supermodel from the
moment I met you, my darling Evie,' he always said. 'You are
so beautiful, so graceful.'
For once, he didn't say it. Instead, he clicked his fingers
autocratically and a trio of musicians appeared from nowhere,
playing gypsy violin music that would forever remind her of
this magical moment.
He smiled then, the enigmatic smile that had fascinated her
all those months ago when they'd met in Venice, both waiting
for the power boat to take them to the Hotel Cipriani. Slowly,
he produced a Tiffany leather box from his suit pocket, slid to
his knees in front of her and opened it.
A cluster of exquisite diamonds shone out at her. Their
wonderful shimmer, and the tears of joy clouding her eyes,
meant she could barely see his face.
'Will you marry me, my love?' he said . . .

'Have you finished that report yet?' inquired her boss.
Evie gave Davis Wentworth a quelling glance at the
very notion that a report which he needed by twelve
wouldn't be ready by that time. Honestly, after seven years
as his personal assistant didn't he realise that she'd work
her fingers to the bone rather than be late with any piece
of work? Even a narcolepsy-inducing document on the
latest alarm specifications for one of Wentworth Alarms'
most important customers.
'Of course it's ready,' she said evenly. 'It's been on your
desk for over an hour'
'Sorry, Evie,' Davis muttered, his mind obviously elsewhere.
'I should have known better'
He shuffled off in the direction of his office, open suit
jacket flapping around his broad hips. He certainly wasn't
sticking to his diet, Evie sighed to herself, watching his
bulky figure navigate the small space between the filing
cabinets and the new junior's desk.
There really was no point buying Davis low-fat soups
and mayonnaise-free sandwiches for lunch instead of his
favourite pork pies because when he went home, he
obviously sat in front of the fridge all night and just
guzzled. Poor thing, she was fond of him. But if he didn't
go on a diet soon, he'd never make his sixtieth birthday.
Evie glanced at her watch and realised she'd have to go
out and buy his lunch soon. She'd better stop daydreaming
about handsome men and gypsy music if she wanted to be
finished by one.
Stretching her tired fingers one last time, she admired
her engagement ring and stared blankly at her keyboard.
Simon's proposal had been lovely, in its own way. The
Carriage Lamp was a pretty restaurant, although the
atmosphere of their romantic evening had been rather
spoiled initially because they'd gone there when the Early Bird menu was still operating. And listening to the three-year-old
at the next table screaming lustily for 'More fith
and chips, pleeth!' had been a bit off putting.
'Thank heavens they've gone,' Simon had said with relief
when the child and her family departed after twenty
minutes of tantrums. 'I couldn't concentrate with that
noise.'
'Concentrate on what?' Evie had asked, not really paying
that much attention because she was wondering if the
waitress was ever going to bring their crab cake starters.
She was starving.
'On what I have to ask you,' he said nervously.
Evie stopped craning her neck and stared at the man
she'd been dating for eighteen months. Simon pushed his
horn-rimmed glasses higher on the bridge of his aquiline
nose and took a deep breath. His bony face was earnest
and his grey eyes were serious. Very serious.
Evie, who hated dramatic moments with a vengeance,
caught her breath in momentary fear. What was he going
to say? It was all over? Their relationship was kaput?
Experience had taught her never to rely on anything or
anyone. She'd thought things were going pretty well
between them but the hardest lesson she'd ever learned
was that you never really knew what another person was
thinking. Until it was too late.
'What have you got to ask me?' she snapped, doing her
usual trick of sounding sharp to hide her nerves.
Simon said nothing for a long moment. Then he reached
into his navy blazer jacket, extracted a small box and
opened it smoothly. A ring sat on a fat velvet cushion, a
diamond ring that wasn't as big as the Ritz, but was
certainly in the same ballpark.
Evie goggled at it. Her first thought was that it wasn't
the sort of engagement ring a man like Simon would buy.
Good taste was his bible and this large, in-your-face
diamond had surpassed the good taste barrier and was
rolling down the slippery 'where there's muck, there's
brass' slope. Not having much experience in the diamond
ring department, she momentarily wondered how much it
had cost, picturing the normally frugal Simon waving his
chequebook recklessly in Weir's, saying 'money no object'.
Thousands, at least.
Then she gasped. An engagement ring. It was an engagement
ring.
'Simon!' She blinked at him in astonishment.
'Evie,' he said, searching her face for an answer or at
least some encouragement. 'Will you marry me? I know it's
a bit sudden,' he went on, before she had a chance to
answer. 'But, will you--?'
She went pink with a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.
How
could she not have known? She'd always thought
those women who claimed they didn't know their boyfriends
were about to pop the question were on a par with
women who were shocked when they gave birth to babies
in the loo, swearing they hadn't a clue they were pregnant
and having hysterics when a baby plopped out. I mean,
Evie had always thought, how could you not know?
But she hadn't. She'd never guessed that Simon wanted
to marry her. So much for female intuition.
'Will you?' he asked, his eyes anxious.
Evie clasped his hand warmly and gave him a dazzling
smile.
'Of course, you dope. I'd love to!'
He leaned over the table and kissed her swiftly, his lips
cool on hers. Sitting down quickly, he grinned at her.
'Do you like the ring?' he asked, his kind face suddenly
anxious.

'It's beautiful,' she said truthfully.
Reverently taking the ring from the box, Simon held it
in one hand and looked meaningfully into Evie's eyes. He
didn't make a move to put it on her finger and she didn't
have to glance down at her left hand to know why.
She knew it was there without looking at it: the solid
gold band she'd worn for over seventeen years. Tony's ring,
her wedding ring. She practically never took it off, except
for gardening when dirt always got into the inscription: Forever. It was a beautiful inscription, she'd always
thought. So romantic
'Do you want to?' asked Simon softly, eyes on the
wedding ring.
Evie nodded. She was used to the gold ring, used to its
weight on her finger, its familiar feel. But she slid it off
gently. Her fingers were thinner than they had been when
she'd first put it on, while pregnant with Rosie, so it came
off easily. She put it carefully in her handbag without
looking at Simon. He'd never know what that ring meant
to her, nobody ever would. When your husband was
tragically killed at the age of twenty-one, leaving you with
nothing but a tiny baby, your wedding ring was supposed to
be the most precious thing in the world to you, a painful
symbol of all you'd lost. In those dark days when Evie felt
as if she'd lost everything, she'd had no time for mere
symbols. But people expected you to take great comfort
from things like wedding rings and happy family photos, so
she'd never revealed that she wanted to throw out every pain-filled reminder and rage at the futility of life.
Simon was waiting, patient as always. Evie looked up at
his kind, hopeful face and smiled, the sort of smile that
made her dimples appear.
A huge answering smile on his face, he slid the engagement
ring on to her finger.
'I'm so glad,' was all he could say.
He'd been so happy all evening, you'd think he'd won
the lottery, Evie thought happily every time she looked at
his face which was creased into an idiotic grin.
They'd drunk an entire bottle of white wine - Simon
had most of it. She'd never seen him drink that much
before: it had been funny. He'd gazed at her from behind
thick-lensed glasses, held her hand firmly in his and told
her she was lovely.
'I'm very glad you're marrying me,' he'd said, slurring his
words a little.
Evie had stroked his sandy hair, smoothing the tufts he'd
unconsciously created by running one hand through it.
There had been no gypsy music, no champagne, no
electrical charge across the table as their hands met. Simon
Todd, a forty-one-year-old loss adjuster with a stylishly
decorated town house complete with courtyard garden,
and an obsession with squash, was no romantic hero.
He wasn't the sort of fantasy man who'd flirt with a
beautiful stranger on an Italian jetty or fall to his knees in front of a packed restaurant and ask her to marry him to
the sound of gypsy music.
But then, Evie smiled wryly to herself, she was no
supermodel either. Unless they came in thirty-seven-year
old versions with cellulite, stretch marks and a teenage
daughter.
Well, there was Iman, who was thirty-something and had a
teenage daughter, but she didn't count. She was a Somalian
beauty who looked as though she'd been carved out of a
piece of precious ebony. Rail thin, she had long, long legs and
an enviously full bosom. Evie certainly didn't have the long
legs but she did match up when it came to bosoms.
She looked down at her own sensible Marks and Spencer's
white blouse. Even if maybe she needed an eye job to get rid of her crow's feet, she certainly didn't need a boob job. 36C
was enough for anyone.
Simon loved her boobs. Not that he ever actually said anything; it was the way he looked at her, especially when
she wore her velvet jersey dress, the one she was wearing
to his office Christmas party tonight.
Blast! Evie groaned to herself. She'd almost forgotten her
lunchtime hair appointment to get ready for the party. She
wouldn't be able to buy Davis's lunch after all. One of the
other secretaries would have to get it. And she had so much
work to finish before she left the office, not to mention
checking whether her latest junior had managed to wipe
out the company's entire computer files by mistake when
she was supposed to be typing a couple of letters.
Waiting patiently in the hairdresser's an hour later,
flicking through Hello! and people-watching, Evie wondered
if she should go for something different from her
usual style. She touched her light brown hair tentatively.
She'd worn it the same way since she was twenty. It hung
dead straight to her shoulders from a centre parting, and
most of the time she tied it back in a neat plait, a style that
would have looked severe on anyone else. But it was hard
to look severe when you had wide-spaced hazel eyes, an
upturned nose and dimples that appeared in plump cheeks
when you smiled.
Evie longed to look autocratic: she dreamed of having
Slavic cheekbones, a ski-jump nose she could stare down
and a steely gaze that reduced people to quivering wrecks.
But with a face that was most commonly described as
'cute', steely looks were out of the question. Being petite
with the figure of a pocket Venus didn't help - and the
figure of a Venus who was partial to toasted cheese and
mayonnaise sandwiches at that. At least Rosie had inherited
her father's lean build. Evie wouldn't wish a lifetime of
rice cakes and morning weigh-ins on anybody.
She hated being cute, which was one of the reasons she
frequently set her face into a frosty glare, her 'cross old cow' face as Rosie laughingly called it.
"I don't know why you do that, Mum,' she objected.
'You give people completely the wrong impression of you.'
Rosie simply didn't understand, Evie thought. Cute
equalled dumb equalled people walking all over you, and
that, she had decided long ago, was never going to happen
again.
She sighed and was trying to imagine herself four inches
taller, a stone thinner and with a sophisticated short haircut
when a tall striking woman with a patrician profile walked
past the salon reception desk. Swathed in caramel-coloured
cashmere, her hair a gleaming chocolate brown bob, she
looked as if being autocratic was second nature to her.
Evie watched the other woman's reflection in the mirror
before re-examining herself critically. Maybe a rich brown
rinse would suit her, would lift her hair colour. Yes, that
was it. She'd have her hair dyed. After all, she needed to
get something different for the wedding in September, so
what better time to experiment than now?
She pictured herself in a soignee white silk gown, rich,
dark hair cut in a bob like the cashmere woman's, a bob
that brushed against the triple-stranded pearl choker he'd given her for the ceremony.
'They were my mother's, they're family heirlooms,' he
murmured in his exotic French accent. I want you to have
them, my darling. . .'
'Hi, Evie,' said her stylist, Gwen, breezily. 'What am I
doing for you today? Cut, blowdry, or complete transformation?'
she joked.
Evie hesitated for just one moment at the word 'transformation'.
'A trim and a blowdry,' she said quickly. 'I'm going to a
Christmas party tonight and I thought I'd combine getting
it cut with having it done for the party.'
'Sensible,' Gwen nodded. 'Let's get your hair washed
then.'
Sensible, thought Evie grimly, as the cashmere lady
sailed past again in a mist of Chanel No. 5, glamour
incarnate. I'm always sensible. It should be my middle
name. Evie Sensible Fraser.
As Gwen cut, they chatted.
'What are you doing for Christmas?' she asked, head
bent as she wielded the scissors on Evie's wet hair.
'Rosie and I are going home to my dad's as usual. My
younger sister Cara's coming too.'
'So which one of you will be slaving over the cooker?'
Gwen asked. 'You or your sister?'
'Dad, actually,' Evie said. 'He's always cooked Christmas
lunch since my mother passed away. He's a better cook
than I am; he's certainly a better cook than Cara. She can
barely make tea.'
The stylist laughed. 'I'm a bit like that myself. I live on
salads and when it comes to hot food, baked beans are my
forte.'
'I doubt if Cara can cook beans,' Evie remarked. 'She
lives on takeaways.'
'Can't be good for her,' Gwen said.
Evie thought of her sister: eleven years younger, a good
six inches taller so she stood five ten in her socks, and still
carrying the puppy fat which had plagued her teenage
years. Living off pizzas and chicken chow mein while she'd
completed her graphic design degree, hadn't done much
for her skin either.
She'd have been so pretty if she'd looked after herself
properly and bothered with make-up. But Cara had never
been interested in making the best of herself, Evie thought
in exasperation, and never listened to her elder sister's
advice when it came to self-improvement. Look at those
shapeless outfits she wore, baggy combat trousers or hopelessly
long skirts that reached her ankles worn with baggy
tunics that covered everything else. She looked like a
Greenham Common woman who'd got lost in time. Evie
had given up trying to beautify Cara, although it broke her
heart to see her sister hiding under all those horribly
masculine clothes.
If she didn't make an effort soon, she'd be stuck on the
shelf watching endless repeats of Ally McBeal with a tub of
ice cream for company while other people led fulfilled
lives. And that wasn't much fun, as Evie could testify.
'What's the party tonight? Business or pleasure?' Gwen
asked, wrenching her thoughts away from constant worry
over Cara.
'My fiance's office do,' she answered. She still felt a
frisson of excitement at the very word 'fiance'. It was such
an evocative word, representing romance and stability all
at the same time. Someone who loved you so much they
wanted to marry you.
'fiancee Oooh,' squealed the stylist. 'You got engaged?
Congratulations! But when? Show me the ring!'
Evie blushed and held her hand up for Gwen to admire
her engagement ring.
'I don't know how I missed that,' she said, eyes widening
as she admired the large rock on Evie's small hand. 'It's
gorgeous,' she sighed. 'But when did you get engaged?
Recently?'
'Late-September, actually,' Evie explained. 'You weren't
here the last time I came in for a haircut.'
Tell me everything,' commanded Gwen. "I need some
romance in my life.'
Evie grinned. 'Don't we all?'
It felt a bit weird to be getting engaged at her age. Evie
always associated engagements with besotted twenty
somethings who'd been longing for a wedding pageant
complete with seventeen bridesmaids since they were
primary schoolgirls playing with Barbie in her wedding
dress. Upholding her outwardly conservative image, she'd
pointed out that most older brides stuck to sedate cream
two-pieces, demure hats and register office affairs.
'I'd hate to look foolish,' she'd told Simon. Looking
foolish would have killed her. Evie strove for dignity in
everything. It was the only thing she'd had to rely on when
she'd found herself a widowed mother while little more
than a child herself. People might have taken advantage of
a sweet, over-friendly twenty-one year old with twinkling
hazel eyes and a smile like a child in a pet shop. But
nobody would dream of taking advantage of the solemn,
dignified and somewhat wary woman she'd turned into
overnight. Which was where her 'cross old cow' look came
in useful, even if Rosie hated it.
'Are you having the whole works for the wedding?'
asked Gwen.
'Yes.'
Simon had never been married before and he wanted to
get married in style. And Evie, who secretly lived for
romance, had allowed herself to be persuaded into the
whole veil/wedding march/confetti rigmarole.
Her mouth curved up at the corners as she thought of
the exquisite medieval cream silk dress in the Wedding magazine she'd hidden in her office drawer under her
supply of manilla folders. It had parchment silk ribbons
criss-crossing the tight bodice and tiny silk roses clustered
around the hem. Pure fantasy. All it needed was a
knight on a white charger. She'd been cheated out of her

ideal wedding dress the first time round: it wouldn't
happen this time.

'Rosie, I'm home,' Evie called, slamming the front door
shut with her hip and dumping the drenched grocery bags
on to the hall carpet. She untied the large headscarf and
slid it off making sure not a drop of rain got on to her
carefully styled hair.
It had taken an hour with heated rollers to create the
bouncy, wavy style Gwen had recommended and Evie
didn't want to ruin the effect with an impromptu shower.
'Rosie,' she called again, more loudly. Nothing. Evie
shrugged off her raincoat and dragged the bags into the
kitchen.
The debris of her seventeen-year-old daughter's breakfast
still lay on the kitchen table: a square of toast with teeth
marks in it lying on a crumb-covered plate, a butter-splodged
knife slung across the plate and the marmalade jar abandoned
without a lid on it.
That morning's half-filled coffee mug would undoubtedly
be up in Rosie's room, along with at least six other
such cups in varying stages of mould development.
'It's a biology experiment,' she joked blithely, whenever
her mother complained about the furry green sludge inside
the endless mugs she rescued from the bedside locker and
the desk where Rosie did her homework.
'Yeah, well, you never wash your experimental equipment,'
fussed Evie, who did not really mind cleaning up
after her hopelessly untidy daughter.
'I don't ask you to,' pointed out Rosie, who was well
used to her mother's fussing.
'Your room is a health risk,' Evie protested. 'That's why I
do it.'
'Mould is penicillin and that can't be bad, now can it?'
Rosie would argue happily. There was no winning an
argument with her. She didn't care. Careless, that was
Rosie all over. Who the hell knew what she'd be like when
she'd finished her final year in school and got out into the
big bad world officially? Evie shuddered to think.
Rosie looked about twenty already: tall, slender and
striking, with an oval face that could adopt a coolly
indifferent air with ease. In her black jeans, the three quarter length
leather coat she never seemed to take off
and with her long dark hair offsetting her father's glittering
sloe-black eyes, she appeared twice as grown up as the
other girls in her school.
She was only three years younger than Evie had been
when she got pregnant and was already about ten years
more advanced. Teenage years were like dog years, Evie
reckoned. For every one normal year of their life, they
advanced about seven.
If Rosie made it into the same graphic design course as
her adored Aunt Cara, Evie would have no control over
her anymore, a terrifying thought. It wasn't in the far-off
future either: Rosie had six more months at school. Six
months to meltdown.
Watching her beloved daughter grow up so rapidly had
presented Evie with a terrible dilemma: should she tell
Rosie that she'd got pregnant at twenty; that that was
why she and Tony had got married? Or would the
salutary tale be ruined because Rosie had an image of her
late father as some sort of demi-god and would be
devastated to learn that the fairy-tale romance she'd been
told about as a curious child wasn't so much of a fairy
story after all? Evie didn't know. She was simply sorry
she'd tried to make up for the lack of Rosie's dad by
making him into the sort of hero the little girl could be
proud of.
There was no doubt about it, lies always came back to
haunt you.
Sighing, Evie stowed the shopping away. She was in a
rush but, as usual, she found time to put everything in the
right place. Jars and tins stuffed higgledy-piggledy into
cupboards was not the way Evie Fraser did things. The
antique pine kitchen in her tiny redbrick two-up, two
down may have been what even an estate agent would
describe as 'compact', but it was meticulously tidy. Careful
use of space meant the large larder had pull-out wire
shelves with hooks and saucepan lid holders on the insides
of the door so that not an inch was wasted.
When everything was tidied away, Evie quickly made
herself a cheese sandwich and a cup of lemon tea and took
it upstairs with her. After having a speedy shower so a blast
of steam wouldn't make her hair droop, she slathered
herself in body lotion and then applied some makeup.
It was just as well that Simon loved the natural look,
Evie thought, as she brushed some ochre eyeshadow across
her eyelids and gave her thick lashes a delicate brush of
brown mascara.
Rosie, who wore eye make-up as if it was tribal war
paint, was always urging her mother to wear rich, dark
colours to emphasise her hazel eyes.
'Some kohl and a line of gold eyeliner will make the
amber flecks stand out,' she'd pointed out the last time
she'd sat on her mother's bed watching Evie get ready to
go out with Simon.
'Yes, and make me look like mutton dressed as lamb,'
Evie argued. 'I couldn't bear it.'
Rosie sighed. 'You're not a hundred, Mum. You're thirty
seven. The style police won't arrest you if you stop looking
like a dowager duchess just once in a blue moon.' Rosie
picked up the gold eyeliner she'd been proffering and began
drawing a delicate line under her bottom lashes. The
result was startling, it made her eyes stand out even more
exotically than usual. 'Anyway, Sophie's mother is five
years older than you and she's thinking of getting her belly
pierced.'
'Ugh!' Evie said. 'I can't imagine anything worse. What
will she look like? And is that what you want me to look
like - a wrinkled mother in belly tops, with peroxide hair
and a nose stud?'
'No, Mum.' Rosie unfolded her long, slender, black-clad
limbs from the bed. 'But it wouldn't do you any harm to
lighten up a little. You're too young to start wearing
support tights and floral nylon two-pieces.'
'I don't wear clothes like that,' her mother protested,
throwing a bottle of pearly pink nail varnish at Rosie who
caught it expertly.
"And they're sheer sexy tights you're wearing now, are
they?' Rosie demanded.
Evie looked at the black opaque tights she always wore
on the rare occasions she dressed in her one and only
on-the-knee black skirt.
'Touche,' she said with a grin.
Evie thought of that now as she looked at herself in the
bathroom mirror, pale beige lipstick twisted up and ready
to go on. Maybe she was a bit boring. Thirty-seven wasn't a
hundred, she knew that. But Evie had been acting as a
grown up for so many years, she'd forgotten how to live a
little, how to loosen up. Rosie couldn't understand that. She had no idea what it was like to be a twenty-one-year
old widow with a six-month-old baby girl. If you weren't
mature in those circumstances, you went to pieces and
there wasn't much time for worrying about the state of
your tights or what sort of eyeliner to use.
Dumping the lipstick back in her make-up bag, Evie
poked around in the bathroom cabinet until she found her
one bright lipstick: a raisin colour she'd got free with a
magazine and had never used.
She boldly coloured her lips with it, layering the rich
shade until her mouth was a dark and vibrant slash. It was
too much, she decided anxiously. She scrubbed it off with
toilet paper and slicked on her original colour.
Ten minutes later, she was ready. Her hair was a mass of
rippling curls to her shoulders which offset the long
sleeved black velvet dress with its gentle scoop neck. The
dress clung to her waist, flared out over the spreading hips
to mid-calf, and Evie wore sheer black tights and her mock
croc court shoes. No opaque granny tights tonight. She
smiled fondly at the thought of Rosie's delighted expression
if she was here.
Evie wished she had some decent jewellery to set the
neckline off but since she'd been given the diamond ring,
all her other jewellery looked small and insignificant
beside it. The tiny opal pendant she'd bought in Spain
years ago looked ridiculous on its slender gold chain
compared to the magnificent engagement ring. So she left
her neck bare.
Her taxi had arrived and she was just leaving the house
when the phone rang.
'Mum, hiya. I'm in Sophie's,' Rosie said. 'I won't be too
late.'
'What's "not too late"?' demanded Evie, staring in the
hall mirror and dusting away a speck of mascara.
Her daughter sighed heavily. 'Eleven . . . twelve at the
latest. You'll be out, anyway, won't you? What is it you're
going to?'
'Simon's office party.'
'What are you wearing?' asked Rosie. 'Nothing too
raunchy, I hope. We wouldn't want Simon's entire firm to
get collective heart attacks at the sight of you in your
gownless evening strap.'
Evie frowned. She hated the way Rosie mocked Simon's
job. OK, loss adjusting wasn't the most dangerously exciting
profession on the planet and certainly couldn't match
what Tony had done for a living. But then, not everyone
could be a policeman decorated for bravery. And finally
Tony had been too brave for his own good.
Evie just wished Rosie would stop idolising her father
and make a bit of an effort with Simon.
'I don't have any gownless evening straps in my wardrobe,'
she said mildly, thinking of the perfectly organised
wardrobe in her room, with its small collection of classic
clothes. Evie believed in buying little and often, and she
loved the conservative elegance of tailored clothes. She was
wearing the most daring outfit she owned. 'And if I did,
you'd probably have borrowed it long ago, you brat.'
'Mum, if you had a gownless evening strap in your
wardrobe, I'd have a heart attack with shock!' Rosie joked.
'What are you wearing?'
'My black velvet . . . and sheer tights, in case you're
wondering!'
They both laughed.
'I got my hair done, it's sort of curly,' she added.
'Great.' Rosie sounded enthusiastic. 'Knock 'em dead,
Mum. See you.'
She rang off. Evie sighed. She preferred it when her
daughter was home at night, when she knew where she
was and what she was doing. But Rosie was nearly eighteen:
her mother couldn't lock her away in a plastic bubble.
Maybe that was why she felt so old, Evie thought,
grabbing her coat. Having a practically grown-up daughter.
Or maybe it was just the sense of loss looming in the
future, when her beloved Rosie was so grown up she left
home and there'd be no more cosy evenings together,
watching telly, laughing over old Father Ted episodes and
having emergency snack breaks in the kitchen when they'd
sat up late talking.
She put one hand on the front door and was about to
brave the icy December weather when she stopped. Racing
upstairs, she found the raisin lipstick, slicked some on
her lips and stuck it in her handbag. Rosie was right, bless
her. She had to lighten up a little.

Simon greeted her at the door of the Westbury Hotel
function room with an affectionate kiss on the cheek.
Dressed in his dark suit, which made his sandy hair appear
almost blond, he looked palely handsome and Evie felt that
flicker of pleasure that sometimes washed over her when
she realised she was going to marry him. He was a good
man, a kind man. If only Rosie could see it. She slid a hand
inside his jacket, feeling his lean frame through the soft
cotton of his white shirt. All that squash kept him very fit.
'I'm so glad you're here!' he said, sounding incredibly
relieved.
'Are you?' whispered Evie happily, as he helped her out
of her coat. The room looked so pretty, she thought,
decorated like the rest of the hotel in subtle festive greens
and gold.
'God, yes,' Simon exclaimed. 'Hugh Maguire, the
Managing Director, arrived a few minutes ago absolutely
plastered and his wife, Hilda, who was supposed to meet
him in the hotel bar an hour ago, isn't amused. I knew
you'd be able to talk to her. Nobody else can. She's so
difficult.'
Evie's delight evaporated.
'I don't even know her,' she hissed frantically into
Simon's ear. But he was already bundling her across the
room to where an icy-faced matron in a black satin tent
stood alone beside a stately Christmas tree.
'Hilda,' Simon said in his best client voice, 'this is Evie
Fraser, my fiancee. She so wanted to meet you.'
Gritting her teeth, Evie tried to look as if she wanted to
meet Hilda Maguire. Hilda didn't look as if she wanted
to meet anyone - except perhaps for a Mafia t while
she arranged a contract on her errant husband.
'Hello, Hilda,' Evie said warmly.
Hilda muttered something unintelligible in reply and
kept her eyes on the group of people standing beside the
buffet table.
Because Simon was not the chatty sort, Evie didn't know
the office gossip. But seeing Hilda's husband nose to nose
with a giant tumbler of amber liquid and an attractive girl
as he loudly told what could only be ribald jokes, it wasn't
hard to figure out that Hugh preferred his partying sans Hilda.
As his wife stood beside her, glowering and breathing
heavily like a rhino with asthma, Evie wasn't sure she
blamed him.
'Isn't this a lovely party?' Evie said, glancing around the
room where forty or so well-dressed people were spread
out, sipping drinks, nibbling canapes and avoiding her and
Hilda like the plague.
'I hate office parties,' she boomed, eyes still fixed on
Hugh, a handsome grey-haired man who had drained his
tumbler in two seconds flat and was now looking around
for a waitress.
'They're a good opportunity for staff to meet each other
socially, and of course their other halves,' Evie said, aware
that she sounded like a personnel manual on the subject of
office relations.
Across the room, Hugh guffawed and put one hairy
hand around his companion's suede-clad waist.
Hilda snorted.
Gamely, Evie pushed on.
'I do love your outfit,' she lied. 'Where did you get it?'
'Had to have it made,' snapped Hilda. 'I've trouble with
my thyroid.'
There was no answer to that. 'Er . . . would you like a
drink?' Evie asked in desperation. She could certainly do
with one. Simon had abandoned her without asking if she
wanted anything, she thought crossly. So much for an
enjoyable evening swanning around on his arm as she
showed off her engagement ring.
Now she was stuck with an enraged Hilda Maguire and
everyone was giving the pair of them a very wide berth.
From the safety of the other side of the room, Simon gave
Evie an encouraging smile. She glared back. When she got
her hands on him, she'd murder him.
Seeing a uniformed waitress pass by, Evie waved at her
and plucked a silver-chased glass cup from the girl's tray.
'It's mulled wine,' the waitress informed her.
'Thanks.' Evie took a deep sip, letting the spicy warm
liquid flood into her. It was beautiful, like distilled blackberries
with a hint of cinnamon. She decided to take the
bull by the horns.
'Hilda,' she said, taking another cup of mulled wine, 'try
this. It'll do wonders for you.'
The other woman turned to look at her and Evie saw
there were tears in her eyes: fat, unshed tears glistening
behind the mascara-free eyelashes. Evie smiled, the first
genuine smile she'd given Hilda since they'd met.
'Go on, it's nice. You could do with a bit of anaesthesia,'
she urged.
'Thank you,' muttered Hilda. She drained her cup in a
couple of gulps and grabbed another one from the
departing waitress's tray. 'Everybody else is pretending it
isn't happening,' she said bitterly, looking at her husband.
'At least you have the honesty to acknowledge it. Nobody
else will say a word because he's the boss and they're
toadying desperately to hold on to their jobs. Some boss!'
Evie shrugged helplessly. 'People don't know what to
say, Hilda,' she pointed out as gently as she could. 'It's not
because they're toadying - it's simply embarrassing for
everyone.'
Seeing Hilda's bottom lip quiver, she looked around for
somewhere to sit. There was a large unoccupied couch in
one corner of the large room and she led the other woman
towards it. Hilda sank down and immediately started
feeling around in her handbag.
'You're being so kind to me,' she said tearfully as she
extracted a tissue from a travel pack.
Evie grinned wryly and thought of all the people who'd
come to her with their problems over the years. People
gravitated towards her for advice, whether it was about
work or their emotional problems.
All the girls at Wentworth Alarms ended up at Evie's
desk at some point or another, ostensibly looking for
tampons or the petty cash book but really looking for a
motherly shoulder to cry on. It amused Evie to think that
many of them were only slightly younger than she was, but
they still saw her as an older, mumsy figure. Rosie was
right: she was old before her time.
Two hours later, after listening to more details of Hugh
and Hilda's marriage than she really wanted to know, Evie
helped Hilda into a taxi and waved her goodbye.
'You were wonderful, Evie,' said a voice.
She whirled around to see Simon at her side, his tie
askew and his hair tousled. He looked as if he'd been
overindulging in the mulled wine.
'Well, you were no bloody help at all,' she retorted, still
smarting at having been abandoned all evening to cheer up
Hilda.
'Sorry, Evie.' Simon tried his best to look forlorn but
failed. 'You're so good with people, I told everyone you'd
be able to look after Hilda.'
'hmmph.' Mildly mollified, she let him take her hand
and they walked back to the party. It wasn't even ten yet,
there was still plenty of time to enjoy themselves.
But once she'd joined Simon's closest colleagues, it was
soon apparent that while she'd been listening to stories of
what a catch of a husband Hugh Maguire had been twenty
years ago, they'd all been giggling over mulled wine and
endless pints of free beer and were all plastered.
After hearing the same joke repeated twice - and they
all laughed as much the second time - Evie decided she
wasn't in the mood to be the only sedate one at the party.
Drawing Simon aside, she whispered: "I think I'll leave
you guys to it. I'm tired and after talking to Hilda all
evening, I'm not in party mood. I'll go home.'
She half hoped he'd insist she stay, manfully demanding
that she had to remain at the party. But ever the peacemaker,
Simon nodded and said he'd bring her out to get a
taxi.
'I'm sorry, it wasn't much of an evening for you, Evie,'
he apologised as they waited outside the hotel door for the
second time that evening. 'If you hadn't come along, I
don't know what we'd have done. Hugh's definitely developing
a bit of a drink problem and we were all sure Hilda
would go ballistic when she discovered how drunk he was.'
'And how flirtatious,' Evie said tartly.
'That too,' Simon admitted. 'But you were wonderful,'
he said and kissed her - a lingering kiss on the lips.
Evie felt the tension of the evening flood away from her
at the pressure of his mouth. She unconsciously slipped a
hand behind his neck, reaching up to kiss him passionately.
His body melted against hers, his arms reaching inside her
coat to encircle her waist.
'Come home with me, Simon,' she said in a low voice.
'I'm not going to see you for three days over Christmas
and I'll miss you. You've done your duty for tonight.'
He pulled away, shocked. 'I can't leave now,' he said.
'Hugh and the other senior partners are still here. I can't go
before they do - it'd be incredibly rude.'
Hurt, Evie moved away and clutched her coat around
her body, wrapping her arms around her chest. 'Hugh's
drunk,' she said, her voice high and angry. 'He'd hardly
notice if the bloody hotel disappeared, never mind you. I
don't see why you can't leave. But,' she turned away as a
taxi drove smoothly in front of her, 'you do what you
want.' She could feel herself getting emotional. The last
thing she wanted to do was cry.
The doorman, who had been discreetly ignoring both
their embrace and their row, opened the car door.
'Oh, Evie,' said Simon wearily.
Without turning around, she hopped into the taxi.
'I'll talk to you tomorrow,' she said in a tight little voice.
'Have a nice party.'
With perfect timing, the doorman slammed the door
shut and the taxi driver drove off.
'Where to, love?' he asked.
Evie gave him the address and sank back into the seat
miserably. Some party.
As the car cruised through the city, Evie gazed out the
window and watched the bright lights go past in a blur.
She was tired, but not that tired. If Simon had begged her
not to leave, she'd still be there. But he didn't. And he was
afraid to leave in case he offended anyone. Not too afraid
to offend her, she thought, her temper mounting.
What sort of a man would land his fiancee with a
babysitting job for the first half of a party, and then let her
go home alone after they'd shared a very sexy moment?
Evie glowered.
'My darling, I would follow you to the ends of the earth. Of
course let us leave this boring party. I have a light supper
prepared for you in my penthouse.'
He held her hand to his lips, a little longer than was strictly
necessary, his sensual lips brushing against her silken skin.
Evie felt her heart quicken at his touch. She knew what
would happen if he took her to his luxury penthouse: he would
make love to her. And she, who had resisted his advances in
Paris and on the yacht, knew she would not resist this time.
Her handsome, charming prince had been undressing her
with his dark melting eyes for weeks, with hot glances across
the roulette table and as she danced with the ambassador at
the ball. Now he would undress her for real, his hands gently
undoing the tiny buttons on her St Laurent gown, letting it slip
over her slender figure, marvelling at the swell of her breasts
and the length of her elegant long legs.
'Will you do me the honour of coming with me?' he asked
again, those eyes boring into her very soul. . .
'That'll be fifteen quid, love,' said the taxi driver. Evie
paid him and marched into the house, feeling like
Cinderella sent home early from the ball because the
pumpkin had got a flat tyre.
Naturally, Rosie wasn't home. It was only half-ten and
she'd probably stay out until twelve, sure her mother
wouldn't be home before then. Feeling very sorry for
herself, Evie heated up a cup of milk in the microwave and
took it up. Within ten minutes she was climbing into bed,
her clothes put away and her face scrupulously cleaned
and moisturised.
It was cold and she snuggled under the duvet, cosy in
candy-striped brushed cotton pyjamas. Glamorous they
weren't but they were lovely and warm, a major plus when
it took ages for the electric blanket to heat up.
After a moment getting warm, she took her mug of milk
in one hand, her latest Lucy De Montford in the other and
settled down to read.
Monique had just told the duke she couldn't marry him
because she was still in love with the dashing Spanish
pirate who'd captured her and her maid as they crossed
the Atlantic. Evie didn't know how she'd put Monique's
Desires down the night before. Only the knowledge that
she had to get up early to work had forced her to turn off
her light just when it looked as if the heroine would have
to compromise herself to support her huge, hopeless
family. Monique was crying miserably in the turret where
the duke had imprisoned her, but Evie knew she wouldn't
be there for long. She was wearing a flimsy white gown
with a bodice awash with silk ribbons and nobody in Lucy
De Montford's novels ever wore anything fastened with
ribbons if they intended to stay clothed. Tonight, Evie was
determined to stay up until three in the morning if
necessary to find out what happened.
Evie could well imagine the duke arriving in the turret
to claim Monique for himself, marriage or no marriage.
And the Spanish pirate would have to get there in time.
There'd be a duel of course . . .
She thought of Simon duelling for her honour, rapier
held aloft as he challenged some nasty duke who had evil
designs on her body. Well, maybe not. Simon hated the
sight of blood and was incredibly squeamish. When Rosie
had grazed her shin while rollerblading, Evie had nearly
had two patients to deal with. Rosie, who was in pain but
trying to hide it, and Simon, who'd practically fainted
when Rosie had rolled up her torn jeans to examine the
scraped bit.
He was just as bad when it came to female ailments.
Brought up as an only child by a mother who treated his
conception practically as the virgin birth, Simon had no
experience of women's problems. Evie couldn't clutch her
abdomen when she had a painful period without Simon
averting his eyes as if he'd stumbled on some arcane
female secret. God alone knew where she'd have to hide
her tampons when they got married. In a separate room in
a brown paper bag probably.
So duelling was out. He might shoot someone to save
her honour, she thought. Shooting happened such a long
way away that he couldn't mind that. Evie took a sip of
milk and immersed herself in the racy world of the
seventeenth century where men were men and women
were glad of the fact.

CHAPTER TWO

Parsnips! She'd forgotten the parsnips, Olivia realised with
a start. Stephen would go mad if he didn't get parsnips
with his Christmas lunch. He loved them, especially
pureed until they resembled baby food, she thought fondly.
It was just after nine p.m. on December 23rd, the
supermarket was about to shut and if she didn't reach a
check-out soon, she'd probably be shoved out of the
electronic doors into the freezing night - without her
shopping. But Olivia who would have died rather than
keep the staff in the supermarket waiting for her, knew
that she just had to get parsnips. Poor Stephen had to
face three whole days in her parents' house over the
holidays so the least she could do was cook him the sort
of food he liked.
Hastily abandoning the jam-packed trolley, she sprinted
back to the vegetables, both the fringe of her ankle-length
Indian skirt and her long fair hair flying out behind her.
She nearly collided with another late-night shopper as
she rounded the bend beside the flowers at high speed and
her sudden sprint surprised an elderly lady reaching for the
cat food.
'Sorry,' gasped Olivia, without stopping.
There had obviously been a run on parsnips that day: all
that remained at the bottom of the display were a few
stunted specimens which looked about ten years old and
would probably taste like boiled socks.
For about the tenth time that day, Olivia cursed the
events which had forced her to leave her shopping so late
that she hadn't time to visit her favourite greengrocer and
delicatessen to stock up on Christmas goodies. Her father
adored those fat Spanish olives drenched in olive oil and
she hadn't been able to find them anywhere in the
supermarket. The pre-Christmas panic meant the shelves
were virtually bare and she was now left with prehistoric
parsnips Stephen would hate. Still, she'd manage to revitalise
them somehow. What was the point of being a home
economics teacher if you couldn't rustle up something
wonderful in the kitchen?
Olivia grabbed a handful of the puny vegetables,
weighed them and rushed back to her trolley in time to
hear a bored voice announce over the Tannoy: 'The supermarket
is now shut. Please go to the check-outs. This is the
last call.'
It was a bit like being at the airport, hearing your
flight was closing, Olivia thought, snatching a big bag of
mini Mars bars as she passed the biscuits and flinging
them on top of the mountain of groceries. What she
wouldn't give to be jumping on a plane right now,
heading off somewhere exotic where Christmas wasn't
celebrated and the temperature seldom dropped below
thirty degrees Centigrade.
For a moment, she dreamed of palm-fringed beaches,
white sand and cerulean water so clear you could see the
tiny silver fish that swam near the shore. She and Stephen
lazing on loungers at the water's edge, listening to the
sound of the lapping waves as the heat of the sun warmed
their bare limbs. Sasha playing on the sand, toys spread out
beside her fat little legs as she sat in her pink swimming
costume, her white-blonde hair tied up in adorable pig tails
and her cherubic little face lit up with happiness.
Wishful thinking, Olivia realised. The three of them
hadn't been on holiday for nearly eighteen months because
Stephen had been so busy at work with the merger
between Clifden International Incorporated and a giant
German bank.
European Information Technology Executive was supposed
to be the sort of incredibly high-powered job that
came with hot and cold running assistants to do the dirty
work, but in reality the combination of Stephen's dedication
and perfectionism meant he insisted on being consulted
over every crisis - weekends, night-time, whenever.
'I can't let anybody else sort this out,' he'd mutter,
handsome olive-skinned face blank, his mind already miles
away as he expertly packed his sleek Samsonite case for
another trip abroad. "I don't get paid the sort of salary they
give me for nothing, you know. It's tough on you, Olivia,
but we've got to make sacrifices to get on.'
Now she was sick of making those type of sacrifices.
Their apartment in Blackrock may have looked like the
'after' picture in an interior design magazine thanks to
Stephen's ever-increasing salary, but she saw less and less
of him as his workload grew heavier. She spent birthdays
and anniversaries alone and despaired of ever having a
normal family weekend that didn't involve Stephen
haring into his city centre office at least once. In the
twelve years they'd been married, she'd been alone for
six wedding anniversaries, and last-minute business meant
Stephen had been away for her birthday on three
separate occasions.
They'd had to cancel the longed-for week in Spain in
July when there was a crisis in the Amsterdam office and
their two weeks in the Dordogne the previous year had
been constantly punctuated by the shrill sound of
Stephen's mobile phone.
Olivia could have lived without the expensive Swedish
wood floors and the high-tech kitchen if only she'd had
someone to share her home with more of the time. She
absolutely adored Sasha but by the end of a week spent
with only her daughter to talk to, Olivia craved adult
conversation. Long-distance 'Yes, of course I miss you'
from a distant hotel room wasn't quite the same as
cuddling up on the sofa with Stephen, having her feet
massaged as they talked about their days. But he adored his
job and was willing to go to any lengths to advance his
career, even if it meant being away from home more often
than he was there.
Sometimes Olivia simply couldn't understand him. No
job could have made her leave Stephen and Sasha for
weeks at a time, not even one with a huge salary, lots of
perks, a 5 series BMW and a company American Express
card.
Perhaps it was because being a part-time home economics
teacher didn't fill her with the same burning drive and ambition to succeed.
Teaching a deeply disinterested 3A how to make a
nourishing meal out of a can of kidney beans and a bit of
minced beef no longer fired her with boundless enthusiasm.
Apart from her enthusiasm for breaktime when she
could throw herself into an armchair in the teachers'
staff room, enjoy a cup of tea and discuss what a little
horror Cheryl Dennis was, to a universal chorus of: 'When
will the principal expel that child?'
Stephen, on the other hand, adored his job and its
time-consuming challenges. Running his section like an
all-powerful despot suited him down to the ground and
Olivia suspected he'd know exactly how to deal with
Cheryl Dennis when she threw mince at her best friend,
who promptly threw kidney beans back.
'Next,' yawned the check-out girl.
Forget about sun-kissed beaches, Olivia told herself
sternly. She stacked her groceries on the conveyor belt and
thought about the sort of holiday season she would be
having: Christmas lunch with her parents, Stephen and
Sasha in the rambling Lodge, a raucous affair where both
parents would be roaring drunk before the smoked salmon
had hit the table, while Stephen would sit in disapproving
silence as bottles of her father's favourite claret moved up
and down the table with frightening speed. You'd swear it
was Olivia's fault her parents drank like fishes.
Her mother would be giggling too much to help with
the cooking and Janet, the latest housekeeper-cum-home
help - whom Olivia suspected also made a substantial
contribution to the already-stratospheric household drinks
bill - had been given the week off.
Stephen was hopeless in the vegetable-peeling department,
and anyway he'd be so tired after his week-long
German trip that it'd be down to Olivia and her mother's
ancient, grime-encrusted cooker to produce everything.
No wonder the school's selection of prehistoric cookers
never fazed her - after learning to cook on the Lodge's
rackety appliances, Olivia could have whipped up a four
course meal with a single gas flame and two saucepans.
At least, Mum and Pops would fall asleep over whatever
Indiana Jones movie was on that afternoon, so she and
Stephen could take Sasha for a walk around the village and
call in on the Frasers, her closest friends.
Christmas was always so much fun at the Frasers', Olivia
thought longingly, remembering the year she'd sneaked out
of a loud Christmas morning party in the Lodge, leaving all
her de Were relatives braying loudly at one another across
the fifteenth-century refectory table, swigging back the
strongest egg nog imaginable. She'd been a shy, retiring
sixteen at the time and slipping into the peaceful atmosphere
of the Frasers' small homey kitchen after the
enforced jollity of her own home had been bliss.
The scent of a goose roasting in the old black range filled
the room, Mrs Fraser and Evie were joking and laughing as
they finished setting the table for lunch, Mr Fraser sat in
his battered old armchair reading, as usual, and six-year-old
Cara was sprawled on the floor, attempting to turn her
new doll into Action Man with the help of oven blacking, a
ripped khaki T-shirt and a pair of large kitchen scissors she
obviously wasn't supposed to be using. The simple table
wasn't a quarter as grand as Olivia's parents' table with its
Waterford crystal glasses and silverware, but it was a
hundred times more inviting.
'Olivia darling, Merry Christmas,' said Mrs Fraser, opening
welcoming arms for a hug. She didn't reek of early
morning hair-of-dog remedies and mothballs from an ancient twinset she'd dug out of her closet; she smelt of
baking and of the Blue Grass perfume she used on special
occasions.
Olivia smiled happily at the Frasers, wishing they were her parents, and then guiltily suppressed the thought,
feeling desperately disloyal.
You were supposed to love your parents, not mope
around after your best friend's. It was just that Evie's
parents were so ... well, like parents, grown-ups. Not like
Sybil and Leslie de Were who still both behaved like the
carefree, idle kids they'd been when they'd met at college
in the fifties.
Olivia felt more grown-up than they were. Well, someone had to be a bit grown-up in the Lodge, otherwise the final
reminders would have been shoved in the hall drawer
unpaid and nobody would ever have thought of paying the
account in the butcher's.
Over twenty years later Olivia still sometimes wished
she could go home to the Frasers' for Christmas, although
sneaking clandestinely out of the increasingly rundown
Lodge for a few hours was no longer possible now that the
hordes of hard-drinking distant de Were relatives were all long gone and the only company her parents had would be
herself, Sasha and Stephen.
Olivia stuffed his parsnips into a plastic bag along with
the rest of her vegetables and wished he wasn't away in
Germany. The apartment always seemed so empty when
he was gone and she felt so lonely on her own in their big
double bed. Stuffing a pillow on Stephen's side so there'd
be something beside her didn't work very well.
She loved it when he came home and they could sink
into the snowy cotton sheets he preferred and make
rapturous love. Stephen's lean, dark-skinned body wrapped
around her pale gold one. No matter how much time they
spent apart, it only took a few minutes for the passion that
had drawn them together in the beginning to be rekindled.
Not that there'd be any time for lovemaking when he
flew home the next day, she thought ruefully, unless his
parents decided to do the convenient thing for the first time
in their lives and left at a reasonable hour. And Cedric and
Sheilagh MacKenzie never did anything that was convenient
for their daughter-in-law. Take today when they'd
turned up at the Blackrock apartment unannounced, just as
Olivia and Sasha were leaving for a day's shopping.
'As we're not having you for Christmas Day, we've come
to give Sasha her presents,' Cedric told a startled Olivia at
ten in the morning, breezing into the apartment lugging a
large suitcase, with Sheilagh close behind, beady eyes on
the lookout for dust.
'How lovely to see you,' mouthed Olivia weakly. What
else could she say? Apart from 'you could have phoned
first'.
'Stephen's away in Frankfurt,' she said, as they settled
themselves on the cream leather couches in the airy,
off-white living room.
Stephen was so proud of those couches. They went
perfectly with the blond polished wooden floors, the
modern Scandinavian furniture and the single driftwood
sculpture on the facing wall. Sasha wasn't allowed to play
on the couches or on the butter-coloured wool rug placed
just so in front of the fireplace.
'I know he's not here,' Cedric said complacently, 'and I
know you're coming to us in the New Year, but we've
come to visit you and Sasha now, Olivia, my dear. We
thought we could get some last-minute shopping if you'd
drive us into the city and, I must admit, I'd love a cup of
Lapsang, I'm parched.'
'Sorry,' Olivia apologised. 'I'll put the kettle on.' She was
always apologising when Stephen's parents were around.
In the stainless steel kitchen, Sasha was sitting under the
bleached maple table playing with her colouring pens: the
bright, indelible acid greens and luminous pinks that she
loved and that didn't wash off. Olivia was sick with nerves
keeping them away from the precious leather couches.
'Are we not going shopping now, Mummy?' she asked in
a voice that was surprisingly grave for a four year old.
'No, Sasha,' Olivia said resignedly as she wondered when
she'd ever get time to shop now. After a manic two days
correcting exam papers so she wouldn't have to do them
during the holidays and waste her precious time with
Stephen, she had banked on getting everything done today,
including buying all the food and picking up a gift for her
father, who was impossible to buy for. But how could she
go shopping with Cedric and Sheilagh ensconced here
demanding to be entertained, fed and kept supplied with
copious amounts of Lapsang Souchong at hourly intervals?
Why couldn't they drink normal tea like normal people?
And how could she tell them they'd have to leave by six
the following evening because she and Stephen had to
drive down to Ballymoreen for the Frasers' Christmas Eve
drinks party?
Cedric and Sheilagh were already raging that it was
Olivia's parents' turn to host Christmas, meaning they'd be
eating their Christmas lunch alone. There'd be World War
Three if Olivia turfed them out of the apartment before
they felt inclined to go.
'Sasha's at that wonderful age when it's a joy to see her
opening her presents on Christmas morning,' Sheilagh had
said earlier, laying on the guilt with a trowel and ostentatiously
wiping away a tear as she placed the presents under
Olivia's tree.
Olivia felt like a criminal, denying a little old lady time
with her only son's offspring. But as the day progressed
with unbelievable slowness, she noticed that neither
Sheilagh nor Cedric paid that much attention to their
adorable four-year-old grand-daughter even when she was
right under their noses: Sasha had spent ages in the
kitchen quietly making cards with her pens, gold and
silver stars, glitter and the child-safe glue Olivia had
bought for her.
Olivia loved watching her: the small face screwed up in
concentration, the chubby little fingers remarkably dextrous
as she decorated a smiley face with long, golden hair:
'Like yours, Mummy.'
Sheilagh had never ventured in once, except when
looking for tea and biscuits. It's as if our home is some sort
of posh station waiting room, Olivia thought with a flash
of irritation, somewhere to relax after the journey from
Navan before being chauffeured off shopping. Seeing
Sasha to give her her presents was just an excuse.
Stop it, she commanded. That's uncharitable. They love
Sasha, she's their only grandchild and of course they want
to spend time with her. They're simply not any good with
children. Or with adults, the little devil in her head
muttered.
In the end, she'd only managed to escape the apartment
late that evening when Sasha was in bed and Sheilagh was
settling in for the night with her cocoa and a mountain of
shortbread to watch Emmerdale and The Bill.
'I'll just run to the supermarket,' Olivia said gaily,
politely hiding the fact that she was exhausted after a day
of cooking and tidying up behind her guests, not to
mention the trauma of braving the three-mile traffic jam
into Dublin's city centre because Sheilagh had a fancy to
pick up some last minute gifts in Arnott's.
'You run along, Olivia,' Cedric said magnanimously. 'I'll
wash up here.'
Olivia stifled the retort that the only washing up left
were his and Sheilagh's last couple of tea cups, as she had
already tidied up after the enormous dinner, scrubbing
saucepans until her arms ached while the dishwasher
trundled through the dishes. But she'd been so grateful to
escape that she'd said nothing and smiled politely as she
shut the apartment door as quietly as she could.
'Five pounds and thirty-two pence,' counted the checkout
girl as she handed Olivia her change.
'Thanks.' She manhandled the unwilling trolley towards
the door.
The security guard pulling down the supermarket shutters
gave her a hot, admiring glance as she left, taking in
the tall, slim figure and the beautiful face. Men always
noticed Olivia, even when she was slumming it in her
ancient and very comfortable Indian fringed skirt, too-large
black coat with threadbare patches and flat suede boots
she'd had for at least ten years.
Flowing layers of fabric couldn't hide the elegant, graceful
body or the oval face with slanting silver-grey eyes and
pale, full-lipped mouth.
If anything, her eccentric style of dress heightened her
unusual looks. Fashionable, tight and sexy clothes were
too brash and in-your-face for someone like Olivia, who
was more at home in antique chiffon blouses and long
Edwardian dresses she picked up in flea markets than in
the chic modern clothes Stephen liked her to wear.
Olivia smiled faintly at the security guard, the way she
acknowledged everyone, friend or stranger. She couldn't
help it: it was a reflex action.
'You're not like most beautiful people, Olivia,' Rosie had
said recently, faintly disapproving. 'You're nice to everyone.'
'What's wrong with that?' she had demanded easily. She
never minded what Rosie said to her. She adored her
bolshie seventeen-year-old goddaughter.
'Too nice,' Rosie had pointed out crisply.
Now Olivia stowed the bags in the boot of the Golf,
shivering in the icy night air.
She'd love to pop over to Evie's for a few minutes. She
had no desire to rush home and she hadn't bought
anything instantly perishable. If she had, Olivia thought as
she fiddled with the heater, it'd remain frozen no matter
how long she spent with Evie and Rosie. It was freezing
outside and, since the twelve-year-old Golf's heater only
worked sporadically, it was pretty cold inside the car too.
That was it, she'd go to Evie's. After the hellish day she'd
had, it would be lovely to sit in her pretty sitting room in
front of the fire and gossip.
Then she remembered - Evie was at Simon's office
party. Shit. Sitting in the car staring blankly at the supermarket
lit up with fairy lights, tinsel and overindulgent
sprawls of fake snow, Olivia felt like crying. She must be
pre-menstrual, she thought, searching blindly in her handbag
for a tissue.
Everything had gone wrong all week, finishing up with
horrible Cheryl Dennis's mince-throwing session on the
last day of term. Now she was stuck with bloody Sheilagh
and Cedric for the night. They wouldn't go to bed until
very late, while she, who had a mountain of quiches to
bake the following morning, had to get up at six.
Half an hour chatting with Evie would have cheered her
up enough to cope. She blew her nose and thought of what
her friend would say about the MacKenzie Seniors. Indeed,
what Evie already had said about them: 'Those people
have no bloody manners - they need the short, sharp shock
treatment. They're so thick-skinned, it's the only thing
that'll work.' Her advice would be brusque now: Tell
them you've got a lot to do so you're going to bed early.
Explain that they can look after themselves tomorrow
and,' Evie would pause for effect, her forehead scrunched
up crossly, 'tell them to phone next time they plan to stay
with you. I don't know why you can't say it, Olivia. They'll
haunt you for the rest of your life if you don't get firm
with them sometime.'
Dear Evie was so protective of her but she was right,
Olivia was perfectly aware of that. Still, it was one thing thinking up all the tough things she'd like to say to her
pushy, inconsiderate in-laws. It was another thing entirely
actually saying any of them. And being so blunt would hurt
Stephen dreadfully because he idolised his parents. Olivia
wouldn't hurt him for the world.
'I'm home,' she said brightly, dragging the first batch of
shopping into the apartment. That was one of the huge
disadvantages of high-rise living - it took several goes to
lug the groceries up from the car park because the lift was
too unreliable to get it to wait while she dragged six or
seven bags to the front door.
More than once, the lift doors had slammed shut on half
of Olivia's shopping as she struggled to drag the first
instalment across the landing and in the front door.
'It never happens to me,' Stephen had pointed out when
she'd complained about it.
Olivia was too loyal to remark that he'd only done the big
grocery shop once when she was in bed with bronchitis, so
he was hardly an expert on the subject.
Now she dumped the bags in the kitchen and poked her
head into the sitting room where Cedric and Sheilagh
were watching the news.
Cedric was sitting ramrod straight on one couch, that
day's newspaper all over the floor, while Sheilagh lay prone
on the other, looking like a giant, plump strawberry in the
pink velour tracksuit that did nothing for either her hefty
figure or her purple-tinged frosted hairdo.
'I'm home,' Olivia said again. 'I'm just getting the
shopping from the car.'
'Oh, hello,' said Sheilagh.
Neither of them moved a muscle.
Olivia turned to collect the second hundredweight of
shopping.
She'd just dumped it on to the kitchen floor when
Cedric called out: 'Did you remember to get a lemon,
dear? You've none in the fridge and I love it in my tea.'
Meaning, Olivia simmered, that you'd like more tea, with lemon this time.
She gazed at the shortbread crumbs decorating her previously
spotless worktops. For someone who claimed to be a
martyr to her wheat and dairy allergies, Sheilagh certainly
could put away biscuits like there was no tomorrow.
Count to ten, she thought, as she boiled the kettle again.
Her guests were still animated at half-eleven. Sitting on
the crouch while Cedric regaled her and Sheilagh with
some long-winded story about his optician's shop, Olivia
marvelled at how her father-in-law could look so like her
beloved husband and yet be so utterly unlike him in every
other way.
Both men shared the same lean build, although Stephen
was broader thanks to his regular workouts in the gym.
And they both had tightly curled dark hair, olive skin and
fathomless black eyes that spoke of Italian ancestry somewhere
along the way (Cedric's grandmother had been
from Naples).
But while Cedric was self-obsessed, strait-laced and very
fond of the sound of his own voice, Stephen was outgoing,
the life of every party, ambitious and very passionate.
That's what had drawn her to him, Olivia thought, wishing
he was here right now.
They'd been introduced at a dinner party twelve years
previously and had fallen madly, passionately in love with
each other. After a whirlwind romance when they'd spent
every spare moment in bed, they'd got engaged within
three months and married six months later.
At the time, Olivia had been working in the local tech by
day teaching home economics, and giving cookery demonstrations
at night to make enough money to travel round
the world. Stephen had just joined Clifden International.
Once they got married, he told her she didn't need to
kill herself with two jobs and then somehow Olivia had
found herself with only half a job, working four mornings
a week, the way she still did. Her plans to travel around
the world had been shelved when she and Stephen got
married, which Olivia often thought was ironic: he way
now never off a plane and had enough air miles saved to
buy tickets to Mars, while she never got farther than her
daily triangular loop in the car to the school and the
supermarket via Sasha's creche.
She couldn't complain, she knew. After all, they had
darling little Sasha and it had taken her so long to get
pregnant that she thanked God for her daughter every day
of her life. After seven years where Olivia longed for a baby,
even if Stephen had been a bit unconcerned about her
inability to conceive, she'd felt gloriously lucky to become
pregnant. Sasha had been worth the wait, the little pet.
'Hilarious, wasn't it?' Cedric said, barely able to contain
his laughter at his own anecdote.
Olivia blinked. She hadn't been listening - 'wool gathering'
was what Stephen called it when she tuned out like
that. Sometimes her mind wandered and she always felt so
guilty that she hadn't been listening to what he said,
especially as she missed him so much when he was away.
'I'm obviously not interesting enough for you, Olivia,'
he'd say in mock disapproval, pulling her to him and
settling her on his lap.
'But you are,' she'd protest, kissing him to prove her
point.
And they'd end making love, a frantic, almost silent
encounter with the door of their bedroom ajar as they
listened out for sounds of Sasha getting bored with her
toys and trundling down the corridor on her solid little legs
to see what they were doing. Stephen got very irritated by
having to keep quiet.
'Olivia, didn't you think that was funny?' Sheilagh was
saying.
'Hysterical,' fibbed Olivia. She couldn't wait for
Stephen to arrive home.
'There's hardly any need to take more booze to your
parents' house and you know I don't like too much
drinking in front of Sasha,' Stephen complained the following
afternoon as he watched Olivia pack a couple of
bottles of wine into the giant hamper they were taking to
Ballymoreen.
'We'll have a couple of glasses of wine and I hate to turn
up with nothing,' she protested.
They were in the kitchen, with Stephen lounging against
the counter, still in his grey suit, white shirt and crimson
tie. He'd arrived homo from the airport a couple of hours
previously, tired and definitely not on top form.
'Bloody thing still isn't sorted out,' he'd said shortly
when Olivia inquired. 'I don't want to talk about it.'
However at the sight of his parents, he cheered up
miraculously.
'It wouldn't be right if I didn't see you until New Year,'
he said affectionately as he hugged Sheilagh. 'Has she been
looking after you both?' he asked in a teasing voice, giving
Olivia's hand a squeeze as he spoke.
'Olivia was wonderful,' cooed Sheilagh.
'Not that we expect her to look after us,' interrupted
Cedric. 'She's a busy woman, she doesn't have the time to
fetch and carry for us boring old things. We're quite
capable of looking after ourselves.'
Olivia stiffened, thinking of exactly how much fetching
and carrying she'd done since they'd arrived.
It had taken a considerable amount of effort on Olivia's
part not to give Stephen chapter and verse on this when
Cedric and Sheilagh finally took themselves oft to their
room to pack - after yet another enormous meal, naturally.
Instead, she confined herself to saying that she didn't
like it being asked if she'd looked after his parents.
'I mean, what do you think I'd do with them, Stephen?'
she demanded hotly. 'Leave them watching the TV and go shopping with Sasha? You know I'm always hospitable to
your parents. I resent your even mentioning it.'
'Have I ruffled your feathers, Mother Hen?' he asked,
tickling her affectionately. 'It was a joke, that's all.'
'It wasn't funny,' she replied.
'Come on.' He tickled even harder. 'Don't be such a
grump. It doesn't suit you. Frowning ruins that lovely face
and I like to see my girl smiling.'
But Olivia, exhausted after her exertions, didn't feel like
smiling any more than she liked being called 'Mother
Hen'. She was fed up with that stupid name.
When Stephen was away it suited him to let her run
their home and cope with every crisis. When he returned,
he wanted her back as fluffy old Mother Hen so he could
be master of the house. For once, Olivia wasn't in the
mood to be patronised.
Instead of hugging Stephen in return to defuse the
situation, she'd gone into the kitchen and started organising
things for their drive to her father's house. Now there
was a coolness between them, a coolness which meant
Stephen was in a bad mood.
Trying to ignore the bad-tempered vibes emanating from
her husband, Olivia consulted her list to see if she'd
forgotten anything. Quiches. Stephen moved one long arm
and stuck the pepper grinder in a cupboard, flicking away a
couple of pinpricks of pepper from the worktop.
'We better do a clean out soon,' he said coldly, looking
into the cupboard and staring at the slightly untidy arrangement
of tins and packets. 'The kitchen really looks better
with nothing on view and these cupboards are a mess.'
Olivia rapidly shoved the little silver elephant she'd
been given by a pupil into the cutlery drawer. Stephen
believed the stark modern look of the room was spoiled by
knick-knacks, although she loved little bits and pieces, even
if they were hell to dust.
She opened the fridge, wishing she'd kept quiet earlier.
Her and her big mouth. She should have said nothing.
Now Stephen was in one of his moods and the drive home
would be hell. She hated driving with him when he was
angry: he overtook other ears dangerously, accelerating like
a maniac and flashing his lights aggressively, and didn't
seem bothered if Olivia and Sasha went green around the
gills with car sickness.
'What sort of quiche did you make?' he inquired idly,
still watching Olivia's preparations through narrowed eyes.
'One spinach and cheese, two smoked salmon and a
tomato, feta and olive one for Pops.'
Stephen grimaced. 'I hate feta cheese.'
"I know, darling,' Olivia said patiently as she arranged
Tupperware in the hamper, 'but you don't have to eat it. I
got a big thing of cashews for you,' she added anxiously.
He adored them.
'Mmm,' was all he said to that.
Olivia, thinking of the drive ahead of them, tried again. "I almost couldn't get my hands on parsnips yesterday but,'
she gave him a broad smile, 'knowing how much you love
them, I managed it. Christmas wouldn't be Christmas
without some pureed with a little ground black pepper,
the way you like them . . .'
'Jesus, Olivia,' he snapped. 'I've just spent a few tough
days trying to sort out a huge crisis in the Frankfurt office
and I come home to find you moaning about my parents
and bloody parsnips! Can't you think of anything more
interesting to say?'
Stung, she turned away rapidly, feeling her eyes brimming
with tears. She hadn't said anything complaining
about his parents, although she could have. And as for the
parsnips . . . she was only trying to show him how much
she loved him, to make up for being cross earlier.
She could have told him about her hellish week in
school, about the horrible kids in 3A or about how Cedric
and Sheilagh had sabotaged her entire shopping plans by
landing unannounced at the apartment. But she didn't.
She'd tried to be the perfect wife to the busy executive by
standing smiling at the door to greet him with freshly
washed pale gold hair flopping around her shoulders,
wearing the elegant silk shift dress he loved and that she
hated because it rode up her thighs when she walked.
What a pity he didn't appreciate her efforts.
Stephen wanted the gleaming, polished home, the
kitchen full of home cooking and a squeaky clean wife and
daughter, but he didn't want to know how they got that
way. The minutiae of their lives bored him.
She didn't turn round when he marched out of the
kitchen but when he walked into the sitting room, she
could hear him speaking to his parents in a voice so
lighthearted it was as if their argument had never
happened.
'Mummy, will I give Daddy his card later?' asked Sasha,
appearing beside her suddenly with a sparkly card in one
fat little hand.
Sasha's eyes, the same slanting silver-grey as Olivia's,
were solemn. Olivia sank to the floor and hugged her
tightly, comfort flooding through her as she felt the small
solid body snuggle into hers. Her daughter had a better
idea how to handle Stephen than she did. Sasha instinctively
knew when he was in one of his moods and kept out
of his way. Like I did when I was small and Mum and Pops
were fighting when they were drunk, Olivia realised with
a shock.
Why was she so surprised by how perceptive Sasha was?
Small children could be aware of so much. Their finely
tuned antennae picked up every nuance of adult arguments.
At least Stephen was nothing like her parents, Olivia
consoled herself. He never ran through the house like her .
lather had on those few terrifying occasions in her childhood,
blind drunk and fuelled by some inner rage. She
shuddered to remember it and kissed Sasha's soft shampoo- .
scented hair. Thank God Stephen was nothing like that.

The drive to Ballymoreen was hell. Stuck in a tailback of
Christmas Eve drivers all heading determinedly to family
gatherings via the motorway, Stephen got into an even
worse mood. Not even the comedy special on the radio
could improve his temper. Olivia sat silently beside him,
watching the rain stream down the side window as they
drove with agonising slowness towards Blessington.
She'd remained calm even during the 'did you remember
to bring my . . .' conversation. How Stephen, a man
who routinely packed for weeks away without forgetting a
single thing, could turn into a man incapable of packing his
own luggage when they went away for a family weekend,
Olivia had no idea.
By the time they reached Ballymoreen, Sasha was asleep
in the back of the car and Olivia was dreading the moment
when they arrived at her parents' home. Stephen had
never really liked Leslie and Sybil; partly because he knew
how tough Olivia's childhood had been, the only child of
an eccentric couple who viewed their hectic social existence
as their true calling in life; and partly because he
resented their wealthy Anglo-Irish background.
Both came from a long line of hunting, shooting and
fishing types who thought that jobs were for common
people, a view which was like a red rag to a bull for a man who'd won a scholarship to college and had been brought
up in a home dedicated to the work ethic. It was immaterial
that her parents were stony broke, having had a long line of
similarly profligate ancestors who'd squandered the family
money. Their rambling, rundown home was four times the
size of Stephen's family's home in Navan, a bungalow
complete with anti-macassars, spotless lino, regimented
gladioli and not a wine rack in sight.
In turn, her parents didn't like Stephen very much
because he clearly disapproved of their hedonistic lifestyle
and made it plain every time a de Were family party
deteriorated into the customary drunken piss-up.
As usual, Olivia would have to referee.
Stephen drove the BMW past the pretty stone church
and Olivia couldn't help but brighten up at the sight of
Ballymoreen. Like a picture postcard version of an Irish
village, it would have been the perfect location for a movie
set in the forties - if only location directors had been able
to find it.
Tucked away in a corner of Kildare unhindered by major,
un-potholed roads, Ballymoreen was guaranteed privacy by
virtue of its inaccessibility.
Nothing seemed to have changed very much in the
village since Olivia had been a child, from the small post
office - now with a strip of bright green lifting the pale
facade - to the pretty stone monument to the Civil War in
the centre of the village, where tubs of plump evergreen
shrubs sat all around the chiselled grey stone in winter.
Village life revolved around the monument and the
wooden benches under it. People on their way from the
gossip central that was Phil's Convenience Shop stopped at
the monument to talk to people who were strolling down
the village from the direction of the post office.
On summer evenings the local teenagers sat and chatted
around it, discussing that eternal question Ballymoreen
teenagers had been discussing for at least three decades:
whether it was worth trying to sneak into Bishop's Lounge
Bar for an illicit vodka or whether they'd be thrown out
before they got beyond the golden syrup-coloured tongue
and groove pine that now decorated the lounge.
On Boxing Day, the monument was where the local
hunt started and at ten in the morning the place would be
thronged with stamping, snorting horses, aching to go,
Tonight it was deserted; the biting December wind and
torrential rain had driven away even the hardiest villager.
They drove down the hill past the row of pretty terraced
cottages that faced the pub and past the butcher's shop with
its familiar red and white awning. Over the stone bridge, past
the schoolhouse and up the other side of the hill to where
the Lodge stood alongside vast, crumbling stone gate posts
with an ancient oak tree standing sentinel beside them.
As houses went, Olivia's old home was beautiful, if totally rundown. A medium-sized Georgian building with an overgrown box hedge in front of it, the Lodge was an almost exact replica of the big house which had stood a :
mile further up the tree-lined avenue.
The big house was long gone and a fledgling estate of
mock-Tudor houses stood in its place now. Olivia's parents hated the estate, grumbling at how the residents ruined the
area.
Looking at the huge unswept piles of leaves clogging up
the drive outside the Lodge, and at the loose slates ready to
slide off the roof, Olivia thought it was definitely a case of
the pot calling the kettle black.
'Are we there?' asked Sasha, sitting up and rubbing her
eyes sleepily at the sound of Stephen putting the handbrake
on.
'Yes, honey, we're here,' Olivia said fondly. 'It's very wet, so let's get your raincoat and hat on.'
She ignored Stephen, whose face resembled a French
aristocrat's about to see the guillotine for the first time.
Carefully tucking Sasha's silky hair under her furry brown
hat, Olivia spoke gently to her. Sasha was always a little
grumpy when she woke up and needed gentle handling.
'We're going to see Granny and Granddad and they've
got lots of lovely presents for you for Christmas.' I hope,
she thought to herself, knowing how useless her parents
were at remembering things. 'And I know that Santa has
lots of special presents for you too because you're such a
good little girl . . .'
'Ready?' interrupted Stephen brusquely.
'Yes.'
They ran to the front door, Olivia clutching Sasha's hand
and trying to hold her own rain hat on at the same time.
Amazingly, her mother was watching out for them and
threw open the front door as they reached it.
'My dears,' croaked Sybil de Were in her forty cigarettes-a-day
voice. A skinny white-haired apparition in
a long, tweedy skirt worn with a polo-necked jumper and
moth-eaten pink shawl draped around her shoulders, she
gestured them into the gloomy hallway with a hand
holding a half-smoked cigarette.
'Do come in. Excuse the cold. The heating's off. Blasted
thing went yesterday and we can't get anyone to fix it.'
Olivia didn't have to look at her husband to know that
his face had darkened to French-aristo-looking-Mp-at-theguillotine-blade-and-listening-to-the-drum-roll
expression.
Still holding Sasha's hand, she went into the hall, feeling
a blast of cold air hit her. Cold air mingled with the
combined scent of cat pee, mothballs and unaired rooms.
Wonderful. If she didn't die of pneumonia first, Stephen
would kill her with rage. How she loved Christmas.
CHAPTER THREE

Cara opened one glued-up hazel eye sleepily and stared at the alarm clock. Only five to eight. Good. Stretching
an arm out from under her blue-striped duvet, she thumped the snooze button, rolled over and went back to sleep.
Nine minutes later, the clock erupted again, its shrill tone dragging her from a wonderful dream which involved a juggernaut, a giant tennis racket and her boss, Bernard. In the dream, Cara was standing at the edge of the motorway, wielding the tennis racket as she back-handed Bernard into the path of the juggernaut. Satisfying wasn't the word for
it. Why did you always wake up at the best bit of dreams? Cara wondered as she rolled over on to her back, raked a strand of tangled black hair from her face and toyed with the idea of getting up.
Only last week she'd been on the verge of an orgasmic five a.m. encounter with George Clooney when the burglar alarm in the flat next door had gone off; destroying any hope of getting George's naked manly arms around her. Talk about coitus interruptus.
'Cara!' yelled a voice. It was Phoebe. Are you up yet? You'll be late.'
Since she'd fallen in lust with the bureau de change
man who worked at the counter beside her, Phoebe had
been sickeningly keen on getting up and going into work
in the morning, Cara thought gloomily.
Until he'd arrived on the scene - 'He shouldn't be
working in the bank. He should be in films,' Phoebe
drooled regularly - her flatmate had been just as bad at
getting up as Cara.
They'd spent many companionable mornings cannoning
sleepily off each other in the cramped avocado green
bathroom, grabbing tights, knickers and bras from the line
they'd haphazardly erected over the bath. Well, Phoebe
had grabbed tights. As one of the most junior graphic
designers in Yoshi Advertising, Cara worked right at the
back of the building where no client ever set foot, so she
and her two lowly colleagues got away with wearing very
un-office-like clothes - in Cara's case, her ancient art
school flea market stuff, none of which required barely
black ten deniers. Or even ironing, for that matter.
At least when Phoebe had been similarly workshy,
they'd had time for breakfast. As she was always the
slightly more organised of the two flatmates, Phoebe was
in charge of getting the Pop Tarts ready for their hasty
departure: two each to be munched on the jog down
Leinster Road to the bus.
However, for the past month, Phoebe had been legging
it out of the flat by ten past eight so she was on time to get
to the counter beside Mr Bureau dc Change for a little
pre-work chit-chat. And Cara, who needed to be shouted
at to get up, tended to doze off again so that when she did wake up, she barely had time to wash the previous day's
mascara traces off her face, never mind stick the Pop Tarts
in the temperamental toaster.
'Cara!' roared Phoebe. 'I'm going. 'Bye.'
She'd better get up, Cara thought dozily. It was the last
day of work before Christmas and Bernard Redmond had promised he'd dock the wages of anyone who skived off
after the Christmas drinks party in Bellamy's last night. He
was such a sadist he meant it too. It had been a good night,
though, she thought. Well, the bits she could remember
had been good. Those last Tequila Slammers had been a
mistake definitely. But her head didn't feel too bad . . .
She stretched languorously. So did the other person in
the bed, one hairy limb reaching Cara's long leg and
rubbing up against hers lasciviously. Shocked, she shrieked
as if she'd been electrocuted and jumped out of bed so fast
that the duvet lifted off the bed, creating a breeze that
redistributed all the dust in the room.
Who was in bed with her? What the hell had she done
the night before? And, Jesus, Cara thought as a wave of numbing pain ripped through her skull like a thousand
drums being pummelled in unison, her head hurt.
'Whadidya do that for?' muttered a voice she knew all
too well. 'It's freezing.' The figure in the bed huddled the
duvet around it again.
The small hairs on the back of Cara's neck reverted to
their normal position, although the throbbing in her skull
continued unabated. Eric. She'd slept with Eric. Again. She
wanted to kill herself
But there was no need, Cara thought dismally as she
slumped down on the side of the bed and stared at the
fluff-covered floorboards she hadn't hoovered for at least
two months. Everyone in the office would kill her when
they found out.
The folks at Yoshi Advertising never missed a chance to
poke fun at somebody and sleeping with Eric was a
surefire way to get so much fun poked at you that you
died in the process. Erie.
She hadn't thought there was enough tequila in all of
Mexico to get her into bed with him a second time.
Although from the way her head felt, she'd imbibed a fair
percentage of Mexico's alcohol output.
Clutching her aching head, she wondered exactly what
she'd done and why she'd had to do it with him?
The firm's twenty-three-year-old motorbike courier, Eric
was a leather and Brylcreem disciple, believing that the
combination of his motorbike leathers and slicked-back
dark hair rendered him irresistible to women.
After a disastrous - for her - one-night fling last January
following the firm's birthday party, Cara decided that Eric
would be much more irresistible if he occasionally hung his
tight-fitting leathers out to air and washed his hair instead
of slathering it with a fresh coat of Brylcreem every morning.
The other reason he wasn't ideal dating material was
obvious as soon as he opened his mouth: Eric was a heavy
rock fan and always talked as if he'd stepped momentarily
out of Aerosmith's tour bus after a serious gig.
He was also, at around five feet six, a full four inches
shorter than she was and since Eric's taste appeared to run
to petite, sexy blondes, like the office's dainty receptionist,
Cara had no idea why he was attracted to her in the first
place. Tall, strapping - Amazonian' Phoebe always said
loyally - and without a petite bone in her body, Cara's
unruly ebony curls, hazel eyes, milky white freckled skin
and aggressively masculine style of dress meant she was a
million miles away from the archetypical platinum-haired
rock chick the courier usually went for. But then, she
groaned to herself, he was hardly her type either. Necessity
wasn't the mother of strange bedfellows - booze-laden
Christmas parties were.
'Morning, babe,' Eric growled, sitting up in the bed and
leaning over to grab Cara's waist with one hairy hand.
She swiftly slid off the edge of the bed and stared down
at him, looking with disgust at the designer stubble, bleary
eyes and grease-ridden hair. She'd have to boil wash the
pillowcase to get it clean.
It was then Cara realised she was wearing a faded black
T-shirt she didn't recognise. On her tall frame, the hem
ended about four inches below her crotch, revealing
goosepimpled white legs that hadn't seen a razor in months.
Angling her head to read it, she saw that Shake Your
Moneymaker was emblazoned on the front in huge lettering.
'Cool, huh?' Eric said, admiring both his T-shirt and
Cara's nipples, which stood out like football studs courtesy
of the flat's non-existent central heating. 'The Black
Crowes, great band. Hey!' He leaned out of the bed and
felt around on the floor. 'You got any smokes? I can't find
mine.'
'No,' she said waspishly, wishing she hadn't shaken her moneymaker the night before. If only she could remember
to what extent she'd shaken it.
But she couldn't bring herself to ask Eric what they'd
done. It was quite bad enough that she'd been so plastered
that she'd brought him home in the first place, without
letting on that she'd been so drunk she didn't even know if
they'd consummated things. Cara shivered at the thought.
Sex with Eric. Damn Pete for starting that bloody Tequila
Slammer chicken game. And damn herself twice as much
for participating in it.
There was also the knotty question of contraception.
Cara desperately wanted to ask Eric if he'd actually used
anything. Her sex life was so non-existent that there was
no point being on the pill and she'd never had a cap or
IUD. In fact, her last sexual encounter had been nearly a
year previously. With Eric. Which meant a spur-of-the
tequila fling with him could result in more than just a sour
taste in her mouth. Her head throbbed at the thought.
Please let them have used something.
'Comin' back to bed, babe?' asked Eric, patting the
sheets invitingly.
She glared at him, furious with herself and therefore
furious with him too. 'You've got to go, Eric. I'm late for
work. I don't have time for this.'
He gave her a cheesy grin. 'That wasn't what you were
saying last night,' he smirked. 'Come on, everybody'll be
late this morning. Everyone'll expect us to be late too . . .'
he added meaningfully '. . . after the way you were all
over me last night.'
Cara's stomach lurched. So she'd thrown herself at the
motorbike courier in full view of the entire firm? Wonderful.
At least she'd started the festive season with a bang.
'Come on,' he added huskily. 'For a big girl, you sure are
hot. Let's have another go on the merry go round, babe.'
Me started to drag the duvet down to waist level, no doubt
to display his manly charms.
Cara felt the nausea part of her hangover kick into
action and closed her eyes beseechingly. Just let him go, get
him out of the flat, and she promised ... no, she vowed . . .
never to look crossways at another man again. Please God,
Shiva, Allah, whoever.
She opened her eyes. He was still there, grinning lasciviously
and running thick fingers through his oil-slick hair.
She tried another tack.
'Eric, I've got a lot of work to finish by tonight, I really
need to get into the office as soon as possible. I don't want
to be rude, but I'd prefer it if you left so I could get ready.'
'What's the rush?' he said, settling back in the bed to
watch her. 'I can get you into the office on the bike in ten
minutes.'
'You brought the bike home last night?' she asked
faintly, wondering what state he'd been in to drive it.
'Yeah.' He grinned. 'You insisted on it, said you loved
motorbikes. Come on,' he patted the bed again. 'We've got
time . . .'
For a brief moment, Cara thought about going back to
bed. Eric clearly wasn't going to go without either an
argument or another session of rumpy-pumpy. She felt far
too tired and fragile for a shouting match. She could
always close her eyes and think of the empire.
Then she thought of being stone cold sober and having
Eric's unshaven face slobbering all over her. And shuddered.
It
was time for desperate measures.
'Eric, leave this instant or I'm going to go into the office
and tell everyone you've asked me to marry you. I've even
got the ring.' Cara pounced on her jewellery box, found an
ornate gold and garnet dress ring of her mother's and
waggled it in his face. 'I've wanted to get married for so
long, I'm the last unmarried girl in my family and I know
we'd suit each other perfectly . . .'
She'd never seen him move so fast, even when he was on his Kawasaki 750 driving out of the car park flamboyantly
to show off to any nearby female pedestrians.
'Jeez,' he muttered, dragging on his underpants, 'you're
twisted.'
'No,' said Cara, batting her eyelashes insincerely, 'just
desperately in love with you. I'm twenty-six, you know,
nearly twenty-seven. I don't want to be left on the shelf
and you're just the type of man I go for. We could have a
June wedding. I've always wanted to be a June bride,' she
added dreamily.
Eric struggled so hard with his trouser zip that he nearly
broke it.
'I'm never getting married,' he hissed, stumbling out of
the room with his boots half-undone and his helmet, keys
and jacket in his arms.
'Neither am I,' muttered Cara under her breath in a
voice that wasn't meant to be overheard.
He stopped dragging his clothes on and wheeled around
to face her.
'You bitch!' he howled. 'You were just taking the piss,
you just wanted me out of here!'
There was no point in saying anything, not even that
nobody else would be dumb enough to believe her in the
first place. Cara opened the front door and stood by it
patiently.
"I know your type, Cara Fraser,' Eric said angrily, jabbing
a finger towards her. 'I'm fine when you're drunk but I'm
not good enough for you otherwise, am I?'
'It's not like that . . .' started Cara, but he didn't wait for
her to finish.
'You stuck-up bitches are all the same. You think I'm
thick. Well, I'm not.' He looked terribly hurt, his face
white. Cara felt suddenly sorry for him.
"I don't think you're thick,' she said, laying a hand on his
arm. "I think you're lovely. But I don't want to get
involved, Eric. Please understand that.'
He shrugged off her arm.
'Eric, have you known me date anyone since I've worked
in Yoshi?' she asked desperately. 'No, you haven't. Because
I'm not into long-term relationships, I can't handle them.'
It wasn't a great explanation or even a truthful one, but it
seemed to be helping. His expression wasn't as desolate.
'Please understand that. I need my own space, Eric,
that's all. I didn't mean to hurt you.'
'Well, why'd you talk to me last night?' he demanded.
Cara hesitated. Saying 'because I was blind drunk and I
made a huge mistake I now deeply, deeply regret' didn't
seem like a very good idea.
'It's easy to feel close to your colleagues and to mistake that
closeness for romance,' she said delicately, quoting
verbatim the recent magazine article she'd seen warning
against drunken office flings at Christmas parties.
He seemed to accept this. 'Yeah, I understand.'
'Anyway,' she said, attempting to drag the conversation
on to a lighter level, 'why did you talk to me? I'm not
exactly your type.'
He grinned for the first time.
'You're sexy for a big babe. I know you wear all that
tough gear and give off "keep away from me" vibes, but
you're not as macho as you pretend. See ya around.'
He pulled on his boots and left without turning back.
Feeling utterly drained, Cara slammed the door shut and
leant against it in relief.
Eric wasn't her type, that was for sure. The irony was
that after six virtually man-free years, Cara didn't know
what her type was.
In the kitchen, she shuffled over to the fridge and
dragged the door open listlessly. Nothing leapt out at her
demanding 'eat me'. Which was surprising, as the fridge
had so many developing lifeforms inside it, there was a
large possibility that one day something would jump out. It
probably wouldn't say 'eat me', though, Cara thought,
rather 'I'm going to eat you'. A mutant tube of pate,
perhaps, which had gobbled up all the mouldy low-fat
cheese and was on the look out for human flesh.
Cara ignored a lump of Brie that looked as if it was
wearing a white angora jumper and, vowing to clean out
the fridge that evening, took out the orange juice carton,
the butter and Phoebe's Marmite. There was nothing else
edible in there.
Then she wrenched a couple of slices of bread off the
loaf in the freezer and jammed them in the toaster. She
boiled the kettle for tea, buttered and Marmited her toast
and drank three glasses of juice to slake her hangover
thirst.
Breakfast sorted out, she sat down in front of the telly
and switched it on. It was nearly a quarter to nine and she
should have been on the bus by now, heading for Mount
Street. But she wouldn't have the energy to face the office
for another hour at least. Getting rid of Eric had turned
out to be exhausting and upsetting. Breakfast telly and
maybe a few minutes of a nice black and white film would
cheer her up.
It was eleven before Cara finally left the flat, having
bundled all the Eric-contaminated bedclothes into the
washing machine. While changing the sheets, she'd found a
condom wrapper on his side of the bed which was a
mixture of good and bad news: they'd had sex (bad news)
but at least Eric had used contraception (good). She
pushed the 'I can't believe you got so pissed you slept with
him!' thoughts (very, very bad) out of her mind.
Pulling her ratty ankle-length purple velvet coat on
over her favourite black combats and the cotton cricket
sweater Phoebe had inadvertently dyed a mottled shade
of mandarin, Cara braved the wet morning.
She'd obviously lost her hat in the pub the night before
because it wasn't jammed in the pocket of her velvet coat
as usual, while her gloves, a necessity in the icy late
December weather, were also missing.
Shivering as she trudged along Leinster Road in the
pouring rain, Cara prepared her spiel on how she and Eric
had ended up leaving the pub together but had parted
company immediately afterwards and had definitely not
spent the night together.
Absolutely not.
No matter which way she tried it, the story still sounded
lame. By the time she arrived at the office, sodden and even more hungover than ever, she'd almost given up on
the 'Eric and I didn't touch each other' saga. It was better
not to say anything, she decided. Everyone else was probably
paralytic with drink as well, so who'd have noticed
what she was up to?
'I knew you were desperate but I didn't know you were that desperate,' remarked Zoe, head bent over her desk as
Cara pushed open the door to their little office at the top
of the building and dumped her bag on the floor.
'What do you mean?' asked Cara innocently as she
wriggled out of her coat, now stained blackberry with rain.
Zoe looked up, one red eyebrow raised sardonically.
'I mean,' she drawled, 'to sleep with Eric once sounds
like misfortune; to sleep with him twice sounds like carelessness!
'
'Thank you, Lady Bracknell,' Cara said crossly. 'Does
that mean everyone noticed?' she added, wincing.
'Luckily for you, no.' Zoe slid off her seat and began
fumbling for something in a giant rucksack. After Pete's
tequila competition - which you won, incidentally everyone
else went home, apart from you, me, Eric the
Greasy and Pete. Pete was almost out cold so I don't think
he'd have noticed if you'd stripped there and then and sang
a few bars of "Hey Big Spender" on top of the table. Eric
was glued to you and my lips are sealed about the whole
sordid matter. You are a glutton for punishment, Fraser, I'll
give you that.'
'I know,' moaned Cara, sitting down at her drawing
board and holding her aching head in her hands. 'I couldn't
believe it when I woke up this morning and found him in
bed beside me. I nearly cried. I can't believe I did it, I hate
myself . . .'
'Stop berating yourself!' commanded Zoe, triumphantly
extracting a clingfilmed sandwich from her rucksack. 'It's
Christmas and you were pissed. You haven't murdered
anyone so forget it,'
'But Eric . . .' wailed Cara. Again!'
'You only go to bed with him because you can manipulate
him,' pointed out Zoe, biting into her lunchtime
tunafish sandwich, even though it was only half-eleven.
They always ate their sandwiches early. 'It may cost £2 to
buy them in the shop but it's a saving because at least we
wait until lunchtime to eat them,' Cara pointed out, when
they were on their frequent economy drives and contemplated
bringing in their own lunches. 'When we bring our
own in, we still have to buy lunch because we've nothing
left to eat by one o'clock.'
Cara sat miserably at her drawing board where the
unfinished campaign for a brand of laxatives awaited her
attention.
'Ewan from copywriting fancies you but you wouldn't
dream of touching him,' Zoe was pointing out, 'even if you
were plastered, because he might want a relationship or
something longer than a fling, so you steer clear of him.'
'I'm not good with relationships,' Cara said. 'There's no
law says I have to be.'
Zoe fixed her with a stern look. 'So you'd prefer the odd
one-night stunned with dopey Eric, huh?'
Cara gave up. There was no point explaining things to
Zoe. It wasn't as if she didn't know what had put Cara off
men. They'd been at college together, so of course she
knew damn well. But Zoe insisted that her friend should
be over it by now. It had been six years after all.
'You wouldn't believe the trouble I had getting him to
leave,' Cara confessed. 'I thought he was going to move in. I tried that "I want to marry you" trick you told me about
but even Eric didn't fall for that one.'
'Nobody would fall for that,' Zoe interrupted. "I read about it in a magazine in the "things I wished I'd done at
the time" section. It never really happened . . .'
'Cara, Zoe,' said a booming voice and both women
jerked upright on their high stools. Bernard Redmond,
Yoshi Advertising boss and bully boy supreme stood at the
door, blocking the light from the hallway.
In a dark suit that made him look more like an undertaker
than usual, Bernard was a rather frightening figure.
Tall, thin to the point of emaciation and with straight dark
hair tied back in a weedy little pony-tail, he always
reminded Cara of the childcatcher in Chitty Chitty Bang
Bang. Today, his gimlet eyes took in the fact that Cara had
obviously done no work on the laxative campaign. But for
some reason, he didn't pounce on her in a temper, screeching
about deadlines.
When he walked into the room, Cara discerned the
reason: Millicent Ferguson, a matronly fifty year old and
his wealthy business partner, was close on his heels
bearing two metallic red gift bags. Keen to impress the
benevolent Millicent, who'd been left a fortune by her
much older besotted husband and was now the firm's
sleeping partner, Bernard was a different man when she
was around. Cara was convinced he hoped to inveigle his
way into Millicent's affections and then marry her. She
and Zoe had discussed sending Millicent an anonymous
note telling her not to touch him with a barge pole.
'Hello, girls,' carolled Millicent, beaming at them. Her
broad heavily made-up face was wreathed in smiles,
purple eyeshadow cracking on her eyelids, she'd applied so
much. 'Pressies from Santa.' She smiled, handing them
each a bag.
They smiled back. They loved Millicent, you had to. It
was a pity she wasn't in the office more often because she
certainly had a beneficial effect on Bernard.
'Thank you, Millicent.' said Cara, drawing a long crimson
wool scarf from her gift bag.
'It's beautiful,' Zoe said, finding a turquoise one in hers.
'I thought we needed something nicer than that bottle
of wine you got last year,' Millicent trilled, holding the
scarf up to Zoo's cropped red head and admiring the
contrast. The wine, not quite a 2 pounds 99 pencescrew-topped bottle
but close enough, had been Bernard's idea of a Christmas
bonus. He was incredibly mean, the sort who'd peel an
orange in his pocket, as Cara's dad would say.
'How are you getting on with the campaign?' he asked,
leaning menacingly near Cara.
She leaned hack, knowing she must reek of last night's
booze, Bernard could smell alcohol a mile away because he
never drank.
'Fine,' she muttered. 'I hope to have it finished today.' As
soon as she'd said it, Cara was sorry. She'd planned to leave
work early to do the last of her Christmas shopping as
she'd be going home to Ballymoreen on the late bus.
Now she'd have to stay late to finish the campaign
because, once you told Bernard you'd do something, he
made your life a misery if you didn't.
'Good,' he said, leaning closer as he stared at the
unfinished campaign. His hard eyes sought hers.
'Have a nice night last night, then?' he asked, his face so
close she could smell the mints he sucked obsessively.
He knew, the bastard. She had no idea how he knew, but
he did. Cara stuck her chin up defiantly. She was not going
to blush because he knew she'd slept with Eric.
'Lovely,' she said.
'Good.' He smiled at her, a fake rictus of his mouth that
didn't get within a mile of his eyes. 'I heard that some of
you, a few hardy souls, were there till closing time.'
Gritting her teeth inwardly, Cara kept smiling. 'I love a good party, Bernard,' she said tightly.
She got up, forcing him to move backwards, and faced
him, hands stuck into her pockets in a masculine manner.
In her size eight flat boots, she was as tall as he was, a fact
which definitely unsettled Bernard. He liked being able to
tower over people, especially when they were women and
he could peer down their fronts. He never got the chance
with Cara, mainly because she never wore any item of
clothing that went below the hollow in the base of her
neck. Her wardrobe was army surplus in every definition
of the word. 'You'll have to excuse me,' she added sweetly,
'there's someone I have to see.'
She marched out of the room, belted down the stairs
and barged into the ladies' loo on the next floor.
She did look a little the worse for wear, Cara acknowledged, staring at her faintly bloodshot eyes ringed with
thick, heavily mascara-ed lashes. Her normally pale skin
was very white and as she hadn't bothered to wash her hair
that morning, it hung in limp curls around her face,
making her look more like a Central European gypsy than
usual.
Phoebe, who had a moon-faced, cheekbone-less face,
was always muttering about how lucky Cara was to have
high, striking cheekbones, a straight nose and a firm jaw.
But Cara hated her looks. She could never understand how
she'd been stuck with this strong, gypsyish face when the
rest of her family looked so totally different.
Her father was several inches shorter, of lean build, and
his hair, before it had turned the distinguished silver it was
now, had been pale brown.
Her sister Evie looked like every man's idea of the
ultra-feminine woman with her petite hourglass figure,
large eyes and adorable little nose; no trace of Cara's exotic
looks anywhere.
Even her mother, whom she no longer really remembered
except from photographs, had been slender, with
light brown hair, and utterly feminine. While Cara was
stuck with a frame like an ultra-athletic lumberjack and a
face that meant customs officers always narrowed their
eyes at her when she walked through the 'EC Nationals'
channel in the airport after her holidays.
'He's gone.' Zoe pushed the bathroom door open and
peered around. 'He's taking dear Millicent out for lunch.'
They both grimaced at the same time.
'We really owe it to "dear Millicent" to tell her what an
out and out bastard he is,' Cara remarked, finding a
scrunchie in one pocket of her combats and tying back her
unruly hair with it. 'The poor woman will end up married
to him and the vows won't be a day old before she's
ploughing through the gin like the rest of us in utter
misery when she realises he's been conning her with his
Mr Nice Guy act.'
'Speak for yourself,' said Zoe virtuously. 'I don't drink.'
'Yeah, you only drink on days beginning with T.' Cara
retorted, swatting her friend gently across the behind as
they left. 'Today, tomorrow, the next day . . . Fancy a
hangover lunch full of carbohydrates?'
'Hell, yes,' said Zoe. Tin dying with one. I've drunk eight
glasses of water already this morning and none of it was in
coffee.'
Munching their way through the Christmas lunch special
in O'Dwyer's, Cara sympathised with Zoe over her
holiday arrangements. Zoe loathed visiting her Kerry home
for Christmas where there was guaranteed to be at least
three fights a day between her five brothers and their
father.
'You're so lucky having only one sister,' she said, pushing
a Brussels sprout around her plate listlessly.
Cara raised an eyebrow. 'Evie and I don't exactly get on
like a house on fire, you know. She's so touchy lately, I
can't utter a word without saying the wrong thing. For a
start she expects me to be practically running the office by
now and can't understand why I'm not working on the top
accounts with a company car yet.'
'Did you explain that Bernard is a psycho with more
complexes than Disneyworld?' asked Zoe.
'There's no point,' sighed Cara. 'She's such a high
achiever that she expects everyone to be likewise. Excuses
are . . . well ... no excuse. So far as she's concerned, I've
been in Yoshi long enough to have pulled myself up the
promotional ladder by my fingernails.'
'But she's hardly running Goldman Sachs herself, now is
she?'
'No. But if Evie had ever gone to college, she probably would be.'
'It's hardly your fault she got married and pregnant and
couldn't go to college,' Zoe said equably.
'I know.' Cara pushed her finished plate away and
reached for her glass of mineral water. 'She's just not very
pleased with me these days, I think she feels I've let her
down in some way. She was like my mother when I was a
kid, took over when my real mum died. Except the
nine-year age gap has turned into a generation gap. She
expects me to do amazing things with my life . . .'
She broke off miserably. Living up to Evie's high
expectations had never been easy and had been harder
than ever these past few years. Her sister couldn't
understand what had changed Cara from a lively outgoing
girl into a quiet, distant woman with a combative
look in her eyes. It had evaporated the closeness they'd
shared since their mother died when, for the devastated
six-year-old Cara, Evie had been a life saver, an adoring
and over-protective surrogate mother.
'What does she want?' Zoe demanded. 'You to run for
president? I'm sorry, Cara, but Evie shouldn't be loading all
her own unattained expectations on to your back. Anyway,'
Zoe took a quick glance at her watch and then
unhooked her coat from the back of her chair, 'she'll have
her beloved boyfriend, sorry, fiance, with her this time so
she won't have any time to spare for telling you where
you're going wrong with your life.'
Cara grimaced before finishing her drink. 'Simon isn't
coming for Christmas, so I'll have Evie's undivided attention.
Well, Dad and I will have her attention between us,'
she amended. 'She likes telling him what to do too.'
Which was an understatement, Cara knew, thinking of
the way Evie ran through the small Ballymoreen cottage
like a whirlwind, tidying cupboards, rearranging furniture
and making lists of things she needed to buy for their
father when she went back to Dublin.
'Really, Dad, you can't just bung everything into the
washing machine at ninety degrees with no fabric softener,'
she'd fuss, examining faded towels so rough they could
exfoliate an elephant.
He took it very well, under the circumstances, sitting
comfortably in his old chair with the paper while she
marshalled the place the way she liked it. Cara wouldn't
have minded so much but Dad was well able to look after
himself. He'd been doing it long enough. His wife had been
dead nearly twenty years.
The problem with Evie was that she wanted them all to
be perfect: she wanted Cara to be a perfectly turned-out
working girl with a walk-in wardrobe, Barbie's Ken for a
boyfriend and her entire life mapped out with the precision
of a flight path. Cara suspected that her sister's almost
obsessive desire for everything in the garden to be rosy was
because everything had been far from rosy for her. Evie
wanted Cara to have all the things she'd never had - youth,
money, a great career and an equally achieving husband. It
was just that Evie didn't seem to understand that Cara
didn't want those things. That was the nub of the problem.
It was difficult telling someone that their most precious
hopes and dreams simply didn't interest you.
Cara pushed open the door of the pub and she and Zoe
braved the outside world. A fresh wind whistled around
them, insinuating itself under Cara's hair, exploring her
neck with icy fingers. She huddled closer into her coat. 'All
in all, I'm not sure this holiday is going to be much fun,'
she muttered.
They tramped up the street together, heads bent to
avoid the wind.
'It'll be more fun than mine,' Zoe said between shivers.
At least you're having a party tonight. My father wouldn't
dream of having a party. It'd be a waste of money buying
drink for all the people in the town he didn't like.'
'True,' Cara said. 'Dad gives great parties. He started the
Christmas Eve drinks party a few years ago, when he got
involved with the painting group. They take it in turns to
have other parties but he always gives the Christmas one.
The class has been brilliant for him. He paints the most
amazing watercolours and he's starting to make quite a bit
of money from them.'
'I thought he always painted?' Zoe said. 'He's been
painting since I've known you.'
'No. He started the classes eight years ago when he
had his heart attack. The doctor recommended something
calming,' Cara said thoughtfully. 'There's this
woman in his group, she's a widow and she's mad for
him - Mrs Mulanny. She's about ten years older than
him and she's always phoning, asking him to put a nail in
a wall or fix something. We tease him dreadfully about
her. She haunts him.'
They arrived at the office and hurried round the side of
the building to go in by the back door.
'He's good-looking, though, isn't he? He looks it from
photos in your place.'
'He's better in the flesh. He's sort of distinguished, you
know. His hair used to be the same colour as my sister's
but it's steely grey now. It really suits him.'
Cara thought of Andrew Fraser, his kind, lined face with
the warm hazel eyes and the welcoming smile. He was handsome, even in his ancient corduroys and the lumpy
old jumpers he liked to wear around the house. A smile
creased her race. 'Maybe I'll give him a pretend present
from Mrs Mulanny: a pair of underpants! He'd love that.'
Zoe shuddered at the thought of giving her own father a
joke present. 'Your dad sounds great,' she said. 'Are you
sure I can't come home with you for the holidays?'

It was half-six that evening when Cara finally made it
back to the flat, wet through and worn out after an
afternoon devoted to her laxatives campaign and a speedy
half-hour in the Swan Centre on a Christmas version of
Supermarket Sweep. The bus for home left from the city
centre at half-seven, which meant she had about fifteen
minutes to pack her clothes, get out of the flat and get
back into town.
'Phoebe!' she called as she slammed the front door.
There was no reply. Either her flatmate had left already
for her holiday in Kerry or she was stuck in a pub
somewhere, nose to nose with Mr Bureau de Change.
Lucky old Phoebs, Cara thought.
She hurried into her bedroom and stared at the mess.
It'd been at least a week since she'd done any serious laundry and clumps of dirty clothes lay around the floor
like dead bodies. Sighing, Cara rushed around, picking up
items, examining them to see how crumpled or dirty they
were. When she'd amassed a few possible outfits, she
stuffed them into her old rucksack along with a couple of
clean things - which meant things she never wore and
therefore didn't like - from her wardrobe. Adding the bag
of Christmas presents she'd already wrapped, she closed
the rucksack and was ready to leave in ten minutes. Just
time for a quick shower.
Cara winced at the sight of herself in the bathroom
mirror. Her hair clung limply to her face, which was still a
hungover shade of grey; her eyes were dead with exhaustion
and she was getting a nice big spot on her forehead.
She showered, ducking to avoid Phoebe's tights and a
new pink broderie anglaise bra dangling from the washing
line. Phoebe must be having a drink with yer man, Cara
decided with a grin. Otherwise she'd have packed up all
her frillies for her holidays.
Out of the shower, she dragged her combats back on
along with a clean white T-shirt, ran a brush through her
unruly hair and squirted herself with the remains of
Phoebe's deodorant as hers was packed. She was ready. Not
exactly party material, but she'd do. Evie would have a fit
when she saw her, Cara realised as she hoisted the rucksack
on to her back and prepared to leave the flat.
Her sister would no doubt be perfectly turned out in
some pristine outfit: hair shining, shoes shining and halo
shining.
Well, Dad wouldn't care what she looked like, Cara
thought with relief. He was happy to see her, no matter
what she wore. Pity Evie couldn't get the message. She'd
learn soon enough. Rosie wasn't much of a fan of sedate
blazers, long skirts and loafers either.
Bags in hand, Cara pulled open the front door and only
then noticed the envelopes on the mat. She picked them
up: electricity hill and a Christmas card for herself and
Phoebe from Evie and Rosie Cute Christmas teddies
grinned up at her, and Cara smiled. Evie was funny: she
always sent a card to Cara's flat. It was one of her
idiosyncrasies.
'Looking forward to a lovely Christmas, Cara, and I hope
we'll see you, Phoebe, for the New Year. Love, Evie and Rosie.'
Cara stuck the card on the kitchen table along with the
note she'd scrawled to Phoebe. Poor Evie, she was trying
her best. Cara resolved to sort it all out over the next few
days. It was crazy to squabble with your sister, pointless
family feuds started that way. They'd have a proper discussion
and Cara would explain that while she understood
Evie only wanted the best for her, Cara was a grown up
now, not a motherless kid.
Feeling better, she slammed the front door, already
looking forward to a few peaceful days at home. She could
picture the living room: the fire lit, logs crackling and the
dogs, Jessie and Gooch, sprawled out on the big red rug in
front of it, as close as they could possibly get without
getting burned; Dad smiling as he cobbled his special
herby scrambled eggs together; Rosie creating havoc with
the local young lads, eyeing them up on her constant trips
to the shop; Evie fussing over the turkey, the pudding, etc,
etc. There was no place like home. It was going to be a good Christmas, she was sure of it.

CHAPTER FOUR

It was late afternoon when Evie parked the car outside the
small house in Ballymoreen.
Thank God we're here,' groaned Rosie, opening her
door and stretching long jeans-clad legs out.
Massaging her tired neck with one hand, Evie peered
through the fogged-up car window at her father's house.
Like most of the houses in the village, it was postcard
pretty: a stone facade with two gently curving mullioned
windows to either side of a door framed with a tenacious
evergreen creeper.
Unusually, there were no lights shining through the tiny
diamond panes. The sky was growing darker by the minute
but the porch light wasn't on. The place seemed deserted.
Evie followed Rosie up the path, feeling a prickle of
unease at the strange stillness. There was no frenzied
barking from Gooch and Jessie at the sound of their
footsteps, even when Evie turned her key in the lock.
'Something must have happened,' she said anxiously,
reluctant to push the door open now she'd unlocked it.
She clutched her coat around her, shivering from nerves
and cold. 'He's had an accident. Otherwise he'd be
here . . .' She paused. It was so silent, it was almost spooky.
Her father knew they were coming; he was always there to
greet them, especially at Christmas.
'Don't be daft, Mum.' Rosie shoved past her and gave the
door a resounding push. 'The dogs would massacre any
burglars stupid enough to break in, and anyway the neighbours
would know in a shot if there was anything wrong with
Grandpops and they'd be out giving us chapter and verse.
You know what this place is like,' she added sarcastically.
'Breathe too loudly and you're in the papers.'
Evie followed her daughter's tail figure into the dark
house, half-expecting to see overturned furniture and the
results of a struggle. But when Rosie switched on the light
in the small sitting room, everything was in its place, from
the faded old brocade sofa with its covering of dog hairs to
the nest of tables where her father kept his pipe paraphernalia.
The polished copper fire guard sat in the middle of
the fireplace with its open brick work and the small card
table was in its usual place in the corner, silver photograph
frames arranged as they always were with faded pictures of
Evie's parents on their wedding day forty years ago.
'See?' Rosie marched past her back to the car and
started dragging their luggage from the boot. 'Nothing's
wrong, Mum. You're such a worrier.'
Still wondering where her father was, Evie followed
Rosie. It was so unlike him not to be there, she thought as
she carried in some of the parcels. They were a bit early,
she knew, but it wasn't as if Dad had anywhere else to go
on Christmas Eve, did he? He was dying to see them, he'd
said so on the phone.
They'd just finished emptying the car when the rain
started, torrential rain that bounced off the flagstones on
the path to the front door and hammered against the
windows mercilessly.
'Dad'll be soaked if he's brought the dogs out for a
walk,' Evie fretted, peering through the dark green curtains
at the downpour.
Rosie looked up from where she was lighting the fire.
She'd hoped her mother might disappear off to the kitchen
to make tea, so she could sneak a crafty cigarette. She
reckoned the smell of the fire would disguise the scent of
her fag. If she had to spend four whole days without
smoking, she'd go insane.
'Mum,' she said in exasperation. 'He's a grown-up, you
know. How does he manage when we're not here to worry
about him?'
'You're right,' sighed Evie. Her father did manage
perfectly well without her. But it was one thing not
worrying when she hadn't a clue what he was up to; it
was another entirely when he was unaccountably missing.
Stop being such a worry wart, she told herself angrily, and
rubbed her eyes. She was tired after the drive down; tired,
hungry and a little miserable. The thought of all the
beautiful food she'd brought was making her ravenous but
she'd promised herself she wouldn't overindulge during
the holidays.
One lapse could ruin her cellulite-busting plan, although
those sausage rolls she'd got looked particularly gorgeous,
all flaky pastry and tempting sausage meat. But what was
the point of killing herself dieting? Simon wouldn't notice
if the night before was anything to go by. He'd hardly be
aware if she had her entire body remodelled, she thought
despondently.
She'd spent the car journey thinking about the party and
how Simon had abandoned her for two solid hours by
leaving her talking to poor Hilda Maguire. Evie had been
so looking forward to the evening. It wasn't as if she had
such a hectic social life that she was going to parties every
night of the week. She practically never went out.
That much-looked forward to evening had been the highlight
of her week. What a waste going to the hairdresser's.
The more she turned it over in her mind, the more
depressed she got. Imagine letting her go home alone
because he was afraid to offend his bosses by leaving early.
He couldn't love her to do that. Love meant wanting to be
together passionately, frantically. Especially at Christmas.
She remembered how Simon had broken the news to
her that he wouldn't be going with her to Ballymoreen
They'd been trailing around the shops looking for gifts for
each other that cost less than 40 pounds each - Simon's idea
because they were saving for the wedding.
'Next year we'll be together, Evie. But I'm not going to
be able to go with you this time. I can't let Mother down.
We've gone to Uncle Harry's for Christmas every year
since I was a child. It's a tradition. Mother would feel so
alone among all the relatives without me.'
Seeing how downcast his fiancee looked at this bombshell,
he had asked her to stay at Uncle Harry's too. A bit
of a half-hearted invitation, Evie had felt. Still, she
couldn't have left Dad and Cara on their own, so she'd
refused.
If last night had been a wonderful party, it would have
kept her going over the entire Simon-less holiday. But it
had been a complete let down. Which was a bit how Evie
felt. Let down. Maybe she'd just have one sausage roll. She
felt like it. Yes, and think what your rear end will look like
after a few days of eating like a horse, her conscience
pointed out.
'I'm going to make some lemon tea,' she announced
resolutely. 'Want some?'
Rosie, reed slim with a perfect peaches and cream
complexion and not a blemish on her young skin, rolled
her eyes to heaven.
'The only thing I fancy with lemon in it is a vodka and
Red Bull,' she said wickedly.
Evie stopped in her tracks. 'Rosie! I've told you before:
no drinking here. Granddad would have a canary if he saw
you drinking spirits. Wine at dinner and that's it. I know
you drink beer with your friends, I've smelt it. But not
here. This isn't Dublin, you know. It you drink here, the
entire village will know about it and, believe me, they'll be
talking about you. I don't want that to happen.' She
marched into the kitchen.
Her daughter scowled. I suppose a smoke is out of the
question? Rosie thought crossly as she blew on the logs in
the grate. What's eating her? she wondered. Her mother
had been like a bear with a sore head all day. It was that
drippy Simon, she knew it. He was such a wet it was
unbelievable. Exactly what her mother saw in him Rosie
had no idea. At least he wasn't going to be there for
Christmas; watching Simon's irritating little mannerisms
for three whole days would have driven her to distraction.
Well, she was having a cigarette and if her mother didn't
like it, tough. She wasn't a kid anymore. With her head
angled towards the kitchen, listening for her mother's
approaching footsteps, Rosie fished her pack of ten cigarettes
from her pocket and lit one. Then she stealthily
opened one of the windows, sat on the ledge and blew the
smoke out.
Knowing this place, some old bag would undoubtedly be
on the phone in five minutes telling the entire village that
Rosie Mitchell was chain smoking Rothman's, she thought
crossly. It was like the middle ages. If they saw her drinking Budweiser, they'd probably try and burn her at the stake
for being a witch.
Half an hour later, Evie had drunk two cups of lemon
tea, neither of which had filled the gap in her stomach like
a couple of sausage rolls would. She felt desperately guilty
for taking her temper out on Rosie and sternly told herself
to stop being such a grumpy pig. It wasn't anybody else's
fault that her fiance preferred to spend the festive season
with his mother and a selection of ancient relatives playing
Scrabble instead of with her.
She'd also put away the food she'd brought, amazed to
find that instead of having none of the drinks party stuff
organised, her father had trays of beautifully prepared
nibbles ready in the fridge.
Evie, who'd spent some of her meagre Christmas
budget buying large quantities of ready-made sausage
rolls, mini pizzas and sesame prawn toasts, realised that
the things in his fridge were wildly superior to her
shop-bought offerings. Delicate little savoury pastries and
smoked salmon parcels lined the fridge, elegantly arranged
on gold-edged china platters she'd never seen before. Evie
hadn't known he could make stuff like that. He must
have had help.
When she'd brought her luggage upstairs, she'd been
surprised to find a small blue and white china vase of
winter flowering jasmine on the bedside locker in the twin
room she was sharing with Rosie.
How sweet, she thought fondly, smelling the delicate
sprigs. Her father had never been much of a man for
flowers. He never painted floral still lifes in his watercolour
class: he preferred rugged landscapes. Still, it was a lovely,
welcoming gesture. At that moment she heard the sound
of dogs barking, the slam of the back door and Rosie's
voice raised in greeting. Dad!
She hurried downstairs, taking two steps at a time.
'Dad, I was so worried about you,' she said happily, but
the words died on her lips as she rushed into the kitchen to
find he wasn't alone.
Rosie was crouched on the floor rubbing Jessie, an
ecstatic black spaniel, while Gooch, a golden retriever, was slurping water from his bowl, slobbering all over the stone
flags and showering great lumps of white fur into the air as
his feathery tail knocked against the table. Her father was
taking off his dark green Wellingtons. And a strange woman
was filling the kettle at the sink, behaving as if she was
totally at home.
Evie stared at the stranger in surprise. Sophisticated
and elegant even in a heavy Aran sweater and dark
trousers wet from the knees down, she was tall with sleek
honey-gold hair tied back in a knot. Evie reckoned the
woman was in her late-fifties although there were
remarkably few lines around the clear grey eyes that
stared out from a fine-boned face dusted with the merest
hint of a tan.
As she stared at the woman, Evie had the strangest
feeling that she too was being appraised, as if the grey eyes
were sizing her up. She immediately felt podgy in her
jeans: jeans she'd worn because they'd been washed so
often they were incredibly comfortable, but which did
nothing for her short legs and pear shape.
'Evie! Welcome. Sorry we weren't here to meet you but
I had to take the dogs out for a walk or they'd have gone
mad.'
Her father grabbed her in a bear hug and the two dogs
started barking madly again, jumping up and down and
generally making an incredible noise. Evie was about to
yell at them to stop when the woman spoke quietly.
'Gooch, Jessie, sit!' she said in a crisp, clear voice. An American voice.
Instantly, the two dogs, who'd never obeyed a command
from anyone but Evie's father in their entire lives, stopped
barking and sat, both gazing up with such adoration at the
woman that Evie gasped aloud.
Rosie laughed delightedly. 'How did you get them to do
that?' she asked, rubbing Gooch's velvety ears.
Andrew Fraser smiled fondly at the woman, one arm still
around Evie.
'Vida has them eating out of her hand,' he said proudly.
'They walk beside her without their leads and come when
she calls them.'
Vida! Who the bloody hell was Vida? Evie wanted to
know. As if answering her question, Andrew reached out
and took the woman's hand, clasping it tightly.
'Evie and Rosie, I want you to meet Vida Andersen, a
very, very special friend of mine.' His eyes twinkled as he
looked at Vida. Not a 'special friend' sort of look, Evie
thought suddenly, eyes narrowing. More of a 'lover' look.
And that, she realised with shocking clarity, was exactly
what Vida was.
'Evie, Rosie, I'm delighted to meet you,' she said, in a low cultured voice. 'I've wanted to meet you both for so
long.'
She moved forward and kissed Evie on one cheek,
leaving a subtle trail of expensive perfume in her wake,
Then she did the same with Rosie, who was gazing with
admiration at Vida, taking in the long sweeping lashes, the
subtle make-up and the strand of gleaming pearls barely
visible under the sweater.
'I'd hoped to be more presentable when I finally met
you both,' she laughed, gesturing at the Aran sweater she
wore with such panache. 'This old thing of Andrew's isn't
the sort of thing one wants to wear to meet future . . .' she
hesitated briefly, '. . friends.'
She was even wearing Dad's jumper, Evie realised with
outrage. I bought that for him. In the sales one January. Ten
percent off, it was.
'We're delighted to meet you, aren't we, Mum?' said
Rosie, appearing beside Evie and giving her mother a surreptitious prod in the ribs.
'Yes,' she said automatically, switching into her gracious
mode. 'Will you have a cup of tea?' She busied herself
looking for the tea pot, which had always been kept beside
the tea caddy but which had now mysteriously been
moved. Are you staying in the village for a few days or
have you just moved in?'
Evie turned around from the worktop in time to see her
father and Vida exchange glances.
'I've lived here for nearly a year,' Vida said in that low
voice of hers to which Evie had taken an instant dislike.
'In one of the cottages beside the mill,' added Andrew,
handing the tea caddy to Vida.
'It's a bit rundown but I love it,' she said. 'I've been
having a house renovated here and it'll be ready to move
into within a few months.'
She produced the tea pot and quickly made tea with the
ease of one who'd performed the same task in the same
kitchen many times before. Evie stood to one side with a
strained smile on her face and petted Jessie as she watched
them move around each other as if they were used to
spending time together.
Evie felt like an interloper. The other three, Rosie, her
father and Vida, were all relaxed in each other's company.
Rosie would fit in anywhere. She had that knack of
appearing totally at home, no matter where she was, while
Evie had never had the gift and now felt as if she stood out
like a sore thumb.
'Where's your new house?' she asked brightly.
Her father and Vida exchanged another meaningful
glance.
'On Bracken Road. The Grange at the crossroads.'
'Oh.' Evie knew the house, a large old manor not unlike
Olivia's parents' house. 'It's very big for one person,' she
said absently. 'Do you have family living with you? Your
husband?'
As soon as she said it, Evie realised how bitchy it
sounded. Have you got a husband or are you looking for one?
Is that why you're dangling around my father? She hadn't
meant it to sound like that.
If Vida thought the question was barbed, she seemed
unconcerned. She poured tea into the china mugs Andrew
had laid on the pine kitchen table.
'No, my last husband is dead. He died a long time ago, in
America.'
Again, there was a pregnant pause.
'Let's take the tea into the sitting room,' said Andrew
briskly.
There they sat around the fire Rosie had managed to
light and talked about the drive from Dublin, the weather
and what time the guests were coming for the drinks party.
"I said half-six for seven, which leaves us an hour to get
ready,' Andrew said, with a quick glance at his watch.
'Early drinks parties are better because then everyone
doesn't sit around until the wee small hours getting
sozzled'
'Which would be a huge waste of time,' Vida said to
him, a warm smile lighting up her face.
She was beautiful, Evie realised with a pang, feeling like
a giant blimp in a room full of sleek specimens. She must
have been absolutely stunning when she was younger
because she was pretty stunning now.
'We met at a cocktail party,' Vida said in a confiding
voice.
Rosie grinned. "I didn't know you were into cocktail
parties, Grandpops?'
Her grandfather grinned back. 'I wasn't, until I met this
lady. She's teaching me lots of new things.' They both laughed.
'Not only about cocktails,' murmured Vida, in a voice
she hadn't planned on anyone else hearing, but which
Evie, who could hear a whispered comment across four
desks in Wentworth Alarms, heard only too clearly.
She couldn't cope with this bizarre conversation any
longer. Nobody was telling her anything and she just had to
know.
'So, you two are going out?' she asked bluntly.
The beatific look on her father's face told her everything.
'More
than going out, darling Evie,' he said slowly,
dragging his eyes away from Vida. 'I know I should have
told you some of this earlier, but it all happened so suddenly and I wanted to tell you in person: Vida and I are
getting married. I wanted to tell the three of you together,
you, Rosie and Cara, but since you've asked . . .'
Evie stared at him, feeling as if the bottom had fallen
out of her world. Married. He was getting married again?
She thought of the photographs on the card table, the
faded one of her parents in their wedding clothes, her
mother in an oyster satin dress with a bright stain of red
lipstick on her mouth. Her wonderful dead mother, whom
she'd never stopped missing; the person Dad had mourned
for so long. Didn't that mean anything to him at all? How
could he even look at another woman, especially one like
Vida, with her calculating gaze and silky voice?
'Married?' said Evie blankly.
'Aren't you happy?' said her father in a pleading tone.
'Happy?' said Evie, parrot-like. 'It's such a shock. You
should have told me.' She stared at him, so many things
left unsaid. Like: 'How could you do this to me?'
"I know.' Her father gave her his mischievous grin, the
one he usually used when she was tidying the overflowing
magazine rack and found newspapers dating from six
months ago wedged in behind his bedraggled crossword
book.
She could barely look at him, she felt so betrayed, so left
out. 'Why couldn't you have told me before, Dad?' she
asked hoarsely, feeling a well of emotion bubble up inside
her. 'Why?'
Andrew Fraser rubbed his eyes wearily and leaned back
in his chair. He seemed to be about to say something but
didn't. Evie looked up from where she was savagely
scratching at a piece of loose skin on her thumb so that it
was almost ripped off. She stared at him gravely, waiting
for him to speak. He wasn't going to. That bloody woman
had brainwashed him.
She got up abruptly- 'I'd better change my clothes. The
guests will be coming soon.' Without saying anything else,
she went upstairs.
Evie sat on the bed in a daze. Her all-purpose black
velvet dress was hanging in the wardrobe for its second
trip out in as many days and she'd even brought her
cordless hot hairbrush in case she felt inclined to recreate
the loose curls she'd had done in the hairdresser's. But
Evie didn't feel like getting ready for the drinks party.
She didn't feel like doing anything. She was stunned,
shocked. Her father was getting married: actually getting
married. After twenty years of mourning her beloved
mother, he was going to let another woman into their
home, into his bed, and Evie didn't think she could cope
with it.
Especially not that woman. Who did she think she was making
herself at home in Evie's mother's kitchen and in
Evie's mother's bed.
'You nearly ready, Mum?' Rosie stuck her head round
the door.
'Er . . . yes,' she stuttered. Mechanically, she unbuttoned
her white blouse and pulled off her comfy jeans. She took
tights from her drawer, and a black bra to go with the
dress, and got dressed. Picking up her sponge bag, she
headed for the bathroom. Every visible surface needed a
good scrub, she noticed as she shut the door. Her father
had never been good at washing away the mildew you got
in the old house. And dear Vida obviously wasn't much
good at getting those perfect nails dirty, she thought
bitchily.
She flipped over her father's old shaving mirror and
stared at a face so like her mother's. They both had the
same wide open gaze, the same rounded cheeks with
dimples, the same warm hazel eyes and upturned noses.
That woman was nothing like her mother. She was thin
where Evie's mother had been softly rounded; Vida
Andersen was all cool self-sufficiency where Alice Fraser
had been warm and welcoming.
Evie sat on the side of the bath miserably, then stiffened
as she heard two sets of footsteps pounding up the narrow
stairs.
The door to her father's room shut loudly and she could
hear Vida's voice through the thin walls.
'You should have told her before this, Andrew. It's not
fair to give the poor thing such a shock. If she'd known
about me, she could have become acclimatised to the idea,
not found it such a surprise.'
Evie couldn't hear what her father replied. Used to the
walls in the house, he knew that everything you said in
the front bedroom could be easily overheard from the
bathroom.
When her mother had died after six months' battling
cancer, Evie remembered sitting in the bathroom, listening
to the sounds of her father weeping alone in his bedroom.
He never cried in front of her or Cara, seemed to think it
was wrong to let them see how devastated he was by his
wife's death.
Evie had been seventeen at the time and had listened to
him for weeks before she went in and told him to cry with them and not on his own. She'd been his rock, Andrew
Fraser had always said afterwards. The one who kept the
family going.
She remembered how her father had comforted her
when Tony was killed by that speeding car. How they'd
gone for long walks in the forest with Gooch's grandmother,
Sadie, gambolling along in front of them, golden
nose in every bush and clump of grass. Her father had been
a lifeline in those horrible first few months when she'd
been getting used to being a widow so soon after she'd
become a wife. Now someone was going to ruin all that:
Vida Andersen. Evie didn't know what hurt most - the
fact that he hadn't told her or the fact that another person
was going to come into their cosy family of four.

Olivia stroked Sasha's cheek gently, pulled the duvet up
around her daughter's neck, then tucked in the big
woollen rug she'd found in the airing cupboard. It was
still cool in the room, even with the giant oil-filled
radiator rattling away in one corner. Asleep, Sasha snuggled
into her cosy cocoon, happy and warm in her
brushed cotton jammies and the Rupert Bear socks Olivia
had insisted she leave on.
Exhausted after a busy day, Sasha had fallen asleep
quickly. Olivia wished she could join her. Her early rising
to get the Christmas baking done had left her worn out.
She kissed her daughter and left the room, the door ajar so
the light from the landing would shine in. Olivia hated
leaving her daughter alone in the small bed in this big
double room. Sasha was used to pretty yellow wallpaper
with bunnies scampering around and her butterfly night
light on the dresser in case she woke up and was scared.
This room had gloomy purple cabbage roses on the walls,
an ugly chandelier thing that looked like a dusty octopus
and lots of large, shadowy furniture for monsters to hide
behind. Your classic childhood nightmare.
'I'll keep an eye on Sasha,' Sybil de Were had said earlier,
waving one hand airily, the other clutching her third gin
and tonic. Or at least the third gin and tonic she'd had
since Olivia and Stephen had arrived. It was impossible to
keep up. At the age of sixteen, Olivia had given up on
keeping tabs on the amount of booze being consumed in
the Lodge. 'You'd want a degree in quantum physics to
know how many bottles they get through,' she'd complained
to her best friend, Evie, at the time, not that either
of them knew precisely what quantum physics was. All she
knew was that she was forever finding three-quarter-empty
bottles of brandy stuck in the airing cupboard and empty
wine bottles jammed in the bottom of the bin. Why her
mother - and it was always her mother who hid them bothered
hiding the bottles amazed her. Olivia knew they
both drank like fishes.
'We won't be long at the Erasers',' she said firmly now,
not keen on relying on her mother's babysitting techniques.
'We'll only stay an hour'
'Don't fuss, Livvy,' muttered her father from the depths
of his chair where he was fumbling through the TV guide
to see what was on next. 'The little mite will be fine here.
Although,' he peered at her over his reading glasses, 'I
don't know what you want to bother going to Andrew
Fraser's party for. The man's a bore and he'll be glued to
that horrible American woman as usual.'
Olivia's eyes widened.
'What American woman?' asked Stephen, momentarily
surprised out of his bad mood. He'd been poring over his
briefcase since he'd got there, muttering that he had work
to catch up with and refusing Olivia's offers of tea and
sandwiches, and her father's offers of brandy.
'That horrible woman who's bought the old Grange on
Bracken Road,' interrupted her mother, voice vicious. 'She
thinks she's irresistible. Thinks every man in the village
can't take his eyes off her.'
Which meant, Olivia knew instantly, that the horrible
American woman was obviously very good-looking. Sybil,
who'd been a great beauty before she got stuck into
drinking a bottle of spirits a day and developed more
spider veins than a spaghetti junction road map, loathed
other good-looking women, as Olivia knew to her cost.
Her mother hadn't been able to cope the year Olivia had
turned thirteen and changed from a scrawny ugly duckling
into a slender Nordic swan. Sybil's friends, when she'd had
such things, had all shared one particular quality: they
were all extremely plain.
'So old Andrew has found himself a woman after all
these years?' said Stephen, fascinated. 'Do Evie and Cara
know about this?' he asked Olivia.
She shook her head slowly, thinking of what would
happen when Evie did find out. Her best friend adored her
father and idolised her dead mother. Nobody, absolutely
nobody, would ever be good enough to fill Alice Eraser's
shoes.
But then, Olivia consoled herself, Andrew Fraser probably
felt the same way himself or he'd have got a partner
years ago. Her parents were making mountains out of
molehills as usual, probably because Andrew had stopped
asking them to his party when they hadn't turned up
three years in a row. There was no way he'd bring a new Woman
into his life after all these years.
The moment she walked into the Frasers' holly
bedecked hall, Olivia knew she'd been wrong. The small
house may have felt like an oven after the icy temperature
of the heatless Lodge, but the atmosphere was about a
thousand degrees lower.
They were among the last to arrive and through the arch
from the hallway Olivia could see Evie standing beside her
father, her pretty face uncharacteristically stony. A woman
dressed in an elegant rose-coloured cashmere dress stood
on the other side of Andrew Fraser. From the smile on his
face and the way he kept a hand affectionately stroking her
arm, Olivia didn't have any trouble in identifying that
'horrible American woman'.
'Is it my imagination or is there a very unpartyish
atmosphere in here?' murmured Stephen as Rosie took
their coats, a rictus of a smile on her face.
'Welcome to the house of pain, Aunt Olivia,' she said
between gritted teeth. 'The drinks tonight are Hemlock
Cocktails, Digitalis Slammers or the Cyanide Seabreeze,
which my mother will mix for you.'
'Your granddad's friend, huh?' asked Olivia, looking at
the elegant woman in pink.
Rosie raised her eyes heavenwards. 'News certainly travels
fast around here. I don't know why they base media
networks in London and New York. They should pick
Ballymoreen - everyone here knows everything the
moment it happens. Yes.' She looked miserably at her godmother. 'The introduction of Grandpops' fiancee has
caused an earthquake. Eight point five on the Richter Scale
is my estimate.'
'Fiancee?' gasped Olivia. 'They're getting married? I
didn't even know he was going out with anyone.'
'I'm going to get some food,' Stephen interrupted
rudely, moving in the direction of the kitchen. Olivia
suppressed her impatience He'd refused her offers of a
snack at home, now he was going to demolish all the party
goodies as if he hadn't been fed in a month. He was still
punishing her for earlier.
'Don't talk to me about it,' groaned Rosie, visibly
relaxing now they were on their own. She always appeared
a little uptight in Stephen's company, although Olivia
could never figure out why. He liked Rosie, thought she
was clever and destined for great things.
The girl leaned against the hall radiator. 'It's the first we
heard of it too. Mum didn't even know he was seeing
someone until we got here today. The thing is, Vida's
lovely and he's crazy about her. It's quite sweet really,'
Rosie added reflectively, 'that old people can fall in love.'
'Excuse me,' said Olivia, gently pulling a lock of her
god-daughter's lustrous long hair in pretend outrage, 'he's
hardly old, and you don't forget about love as soon as you
hit forty.'
Rosie grinned. 'Only joking. You old folks are so sensitive
about your age. Anyway, her name is Vida Andersen, she's tres chic, lived in Manhattan for years and is loaded. She's
renovating this big house down the road and she's got a
fiercesomely posh Lexus parked outside. Grandpops can't
stop smiling at her; the dogs love her and . . .'
'. . . your mother loathes her?' Olivia finished the
sentence.
'You said it.' Rosie paused. 'Come on and I'll get you a
drink before you enter the gladiatorial arena.'
In the kitchen, Stephen was digging into a plate of
tortilla chips with two slavering dogs for an audience.
'You wouldn't like tortilla chips, pooches, they're too
hot,' Rosie said, patting both dogs. 'Drink?' she asked
Stephen.
'A glass of red wine,' he answered.
'Make that two,' Olivia added.
Rosie got glasses, poured out some wine and, standing in
front of the tray of booze so nobody would notice, poured
a stiff vodka for herself, filling it up to the top with orange
juice.
'Your parents aren't coming, then?' she asked Olivia
when everybody had a drink.
Rosie didn't mind Olivia's parents. They always offered
her real booze when she visited them, and gave her
cigarettes. She thought Sybil was particularly hilarious. A
real tough old bird.
'No,' Olivia said. 'They're babysitting Sasha.' She hoped
so anyway.
'I've got the most wonderful present for Sasha for
Christmas,' Rosie said enthusiastically, sloe-black eyes shining.
'It's a doll with a carry cot that can he turned into a
back pack.'
They were discussing the merits of a baby doll that
didn't scream all night or projectile vomit, when Andrew
Fraser and Vida came into the kitchen.
'Olivia,' he said, hugging her warmly. "I never saw you
come in. How are you?'
'Great, Andrew,' she replied fondly. 'You certainly look
happy.' He did, she thought. He looked as though somebody
had turned a light on inside him. Rosie was obviously
right: he was deliriously in love.
'You must be Vida,' she said, turning to the woman
beside him. She was even better looking up close. Her skin
was remarkably unlined and the soft pastel colour she
wore brought out the glow in her skin. Only the faintest
creping around her throat hinted that she was over fifty.
'And you're Olivia,' said Vida with a smile. 'I've heard so
much about you, you're like a third daughter to Andrew.'
Olivia coloured with pleasure.
'I'm Stephen, Olivia's husband,' he said, giving Vida the
benefit of his most urbane smile.
They shook hands.
'And speaking of daughters, where's Cara?' Stephen
added.
'She's coming on the late bus,' Andrew said. 'Poor girl
had to work late. She'll be here by nine, I daresay.'
He began checking the pastries heating up in the oven,
while Vida took more sliced up vegetables for the dips
from the fridge.
Olivia could see quite plainly why her own mother and
Evie couldn't stand Vida. She looked like the sort of
woman you saw in advertisements for designer mail order
clothes for the mature woman, subtly elegant and reeking
of style.
That cashmere dress undoubtedly cost more than Evie
earned in a week from Wentworth Alarms and the pearls
were definitely real. Olivia's mother had had ones just like
them until she'd had to sell them.
Olivia knew that her friend could probably have just
about coped with her father dating some mumsy, overweight
woman from his painting class, who wore frumpy
dresses and wasn't a real threat to the status quo. But Vida
Andersen had threat written all over her and Olivia couldn't
imagine her getting those manicured fingers covered with
paint. Deep down behind her wary facade, Evie was so
insecure she couldn't cope with people like Vida at all.
"I believe congratulations are in order?' Olivia said
hesitantly, wondering if she was supposed to know or not.
Vida shut the fridge, a radiant smile on her face. 'Yes,'
she said. 'We weren't going to tell anyone apart from the
family but we're both so happy we want to shout it from
the rooftops.'
Putting a baking tray on the hob, Andrew went to his
fiancee and put an arm around her waist, momentarily
oblivious to their guests. Rosie stifled a giggle and Olivia
winked at her.
At that precise moment, Evie hurried into the kitchen,
clutching a tray of empty dishes and a stack of glasses. Her
face was flushed from rushing around, beads of moisture
on her upper lip and tendrils of brown hair hanging
damply around her face.
Her expression was that tense, nervous one Olivia hadn't
seen for many years. She was not looking her best, but then
nobody would beside the cool and poised Vida.
At the sight of her father and his fiancee embracing,
Evie went white. Olivia's heart went out to her friend.
Poor Evie was taking it very badly. She looked confused
and lonely. Quickly dumping her glass on the kitchen
table, Olivia relieved Evie of her burden of dishes before
kissing her hello.
'Your dress is so pretty,' she said loudly. 'I love black
velvet.'
'Do you think it's nice?' asked Evie gratefully, turning
big sad eyes to her friend. 'It was the only thing I brought
with me . . .' She stopped, suddenly remembering where
she was. 'You've met everyone,' she said in a strained voice.
'And you've heard the news?'
'Yes,' said Stephen. 'Wonderful, isn't it? When's the
happy day? It's not going to be a shotgun wedding, eh?' He
poked Andrew in the ribs and guffawed at his own joke.
Olivia froze with horror at his comment, as did Rosie
and Evie. But Vida, who was obviously made of sterner
stuff, merely smiled graciously, still holding tightly to
Andrew's arm.
'February,' she said. 'We're having a small reception at
Kilkea Castle. We hope you and Olivia will be able to
come, with your darling Sasha, of course, I've heard so
much about her. She sounds a little doll. Maybe she'd he a
flower girl? And we'd love to have you as a bridesmaid,
Rosie,' she added- Vida's assured expression faltered briefly
as she turned to Evie, who was looking bootfaced. 'I did
hope you'd be one too . . .' she began.
But before Vida could finish the sentence, Evie snapped
at her: 'I doubt if I'll be able to make the wedding. Not
that it'll matter to you, Dad, since you didn't consider me
important enough to discuss it with in the first place!'
She turned on her heel and ran from the room, rushing
upstairs as hot, angry tears flooded down her face.
'I'll go after her,' Olivia said, and hurried past a pale
faced Andrew Eraser.
Upstairs, Evie sat on her single bed and wept.
'Can I come in?' asked Olivia, tapping gently at the
door.
'Yes,' sobbed Evie.
'You poor thing,' Olivia said, hugging her. 'I know your
dad should have told you ages ago, but he was probably
nervous of saying he was going out with Vida . . .'
That's what I can't understand!' Evie cried. 'He did it all
without telling me. I feel so left out . . . how could he? It's
like he was never really close to me. All those years I
thought we were so close to each other and I was wrong.
She changes everything.'
Evie wiped away tears with her hands. "I was going to
tidy out his airing cupboard and sort out the kitchen
and ... I can't now.' She started crying harder than ever.
They didn't talk for a while. Olivia just sat holding one
of Evie's hands until her sobs subsided. Finally, she
scrubbed her face dry with a tissue.
'Sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't have run off like that, it's
just. . .' She grimaced. 'I really hate that woman! Did you ever meet someone and loathe them on sight? That's what
I feel for her. She's so smug and perfect. What'll she be like
when she's part of our family?'
'She's hardly a wicked stepmother,' Olivia pointed out.
'I know,' Evie said wretchedly. 'Part of me knows I'm
being silly about this - I'm certainly old enough to know
better. But it's so upsetting, it's rocked me utterly. I can't
explain ... I loved my mother so much, you see,' she
added. 'How could he want anyone else?'
'But you were widowed and you wanted someone else,'
Rosie interrupted, appearing at the door. She sat down on
the bed beside her mother and slung one slender arm
around Evie's shoulders.
'Mum, you loved Dad but you've moved on, even if it is
on to Simon,' she added in a disparaging voice.
Evie caught Olivia's eye and the two friends looked at
each other for a second.
'That's different,' Olivia said gently.
'Why?' demanded Rosie.
Oh, God, thought Olivia, what have I said? 'Er . . .
because you never knew your dad, that's why. It's different
when you've lost someone you remember.'
'Mmm.' Rosie didn't look convinced.
'Would you mind one of your parents getting remarried
if one of them died?' she asked Olivia bluntly.
Olivia, who wouldn't have been surprised or have cared
less if either parent married a Martian tomorrow, pretended
to think about it. 'of course I would,' she lied. 'It's
hard to explain. Anyway,' she got off the bed abruptly, 'we
should go back down, Evie. There's nothing to be gained
by sitting up here. The rest of the guests will wonder
what's going on.' She meant that Stephen would wonder
what was going on.
'They're OK,' Rosie said. 'They're all in raptures about
their new hunky male watercolour teacher, talking their
dentures off with excitement. I just landed in a couple of
bottles of wine and left them to it.'
'What about Stephen?' asked Olivia anxiously. 'Is he all
right?' He hated being left on his own at this sort of party.
It was a different kettle of fish when they were at his
friends' parties. The talk then would be all about business
and Olivia often felt totally out of things, but she never
minded really. Stephen had to network to get on. Olivia
had to expect a certain amount of the conversations to go
over her head, he would always say.
"I prefer beauty to brains any day.' he'd murmur in the
car on the way home, when Olivia was subdued and happy
to be leaving.
'I'd better go down to Stephen,' she said now, envisioning
him stuck in conversation with one of the inebriated
painting ladies. He'd hate that.
She gave Evie's arm a squeeze. 'Stick on a bit of
make-up and you'll be fine.'
'Don't worry, Mum, nobody downstairs will notice
you've been crying, they're all too sozzled,' Rosie added.
'You'd never think those little old ladies could put away
that much booze.'
Evie nodded. 'I'll be down in a few minutes,' she said,
through a bunged-up nose.
Rosie and Olivia left together, Olivia hurrying down the
stairs, distracted by the thought of Stephen being bored.
She'd suggest going home, that was it. He hadn't been too
keen to go to the party in the first place and offering to go
home early would placate him. They'd only been there
three-quarters of an hour, but Evie would understand.
She rushed into the kitchen but it was empty. Then she
heard Stephen's distinctive laugh coming from the dining
room. Peeping round the door, she found him sitting with Vida, a bottle of red wine on the table between them along
with a tray of sausage rolls. Vida's elegant head was thrown
back as she too laughed uproariously.
'Oh, Stephen, that's a marvellous story!' she said.
He had an audience, Olivia thought with relief.
'Hello, darling,' she said, going round to sit beside him. 'I
wasn't sure if you wanted to go home yet? I know you're
tired after your flight. Stephen only flew home from
Frankfurt this afternoon,' she told Vida.
'Nonsense,' he said briskly. 'It'd be crazy to go home
when we're having such fun. Vida's been telling me about
the time she lived in Germany. There's this gorgeous hotel
in Kronberg that sounds fabulous and she says I've got to
go there next time.'
'It's only ten or eleven miles outside Frankfurt and it's so
beautiful if you get a chance to visit it,' Vida added. 'The
gardens are exquisite.'
Olivia felt her own twinge of jealousy. Here was this
gorgeous and well-travelled woman keeping her husband
amused with stories of her jet-set existence when Olivia's
own travelling experience was limited to that of a boring
working mother. And her conversation never kept Stephen
amused for longer than it took to remove his clothes and
get into bed with her.
'Do you ever travel with Stephen on his business trips?'
Vida asked pleasantly.
Stephen put his arm around his wife and answered for
her.
'Olivia's a bit of a home body,' he said, squeezing her
waist. 'She prefers to stay at home looking after Sasha.
You'll have to meet Sasha, she's beautiful,' he added
proudly. 'We'd love her to be a flower girl.'
Olivia smiled weakly, instantly thinking that Evie would
see this as a betrayal and wondering desperately how she'd
explain to her friend that it had been Stephen's idea.
'I hope you'll feel Sasha can be a flower girl,' Vida said,
turning to Olivia. "I know that Evie's your friend and I
don't want to create trouble between you. I do so want her
to accept me but I can understand how difficult it'll be.'
'Oh, Evie will come round,' Stephen said dismissively.
'She's being immature. She's had Andrew wrapped around
her little finger for too long and she needs to grow up.'
Olivia shot him a furious glance. How could he say such
a thing about her best friend? It was so disloyal. Vida gave
Stephen a long slow look, as if she was thinking the same
thing. She missed nothing, Olivia reflected.
Vida filled a fresh glass of wine for Olivia, who'd left her
original one in the kitchen. Tell me about your job,' she
said warmly. 'Andrew says you're a superb cook and that
you're wasted teaching youngsters who have no interest in
food.'
Laughing at the idea of being wasted doing anything, Olivia opened her mouth to speak but Stephen got there
before her again.
'She is a wonderful cook,' he said warmly.
Olivia glowed with pleasure.
Although I hate her teaching those delinquent children.
What's the point when they all come from homes where
they just eat chips and burgers?' he continued dismissively.
'Olivia's always had this fetish about working but she
doesn't need to. It was different when we first got married
because we didn't have Sasha. But now,' he shrugged, 'we
can manage perfectly well. She just likes being a career
girl. Wants "to make her contribution" as she puts it.' He
made it sound as if Olivia was earning a paltry ten pounds
a week which wouldn't have kept them in loo roll.
She wanted to hit him. How dare he discuss her like this
with a total stranger? How dare he insult her students?
There might be a few juvenile delinquents in her classes
but every school was like that. Burgers and chips indeed.
Stephen was such a snob. And how dare he relegate her
work to some whim of a pampered woman who could give
up work if she wanted to but amused herself by pretending
it was necessary?
Vida laughed infectiously, as if Stephen was teasing
Olivia and she had got the joke, an old and affectionate
joke between a perfectly-in-tune married couple. It's
hardly unusual in this day and age for a woman to want a
career, is it?' she said softly.
'Exactly,' Olivia said defiantly. She wrenched her chair
away from the table until she was out of Stephen's reach,
facing him and Vida.
'It's a question of childcare,' Stephen protested in a
more conciliatory tone, as if he sensed they were ganging
up on him.
'Really?' Vida didn't look at either of them but toyed
with the bangle on her wrist. 'I have worked all my life and
I feel it's been marvellous for both myself and my son,
Max. I firmly believe he benefited from my working
because I wanted a job. I would have made a dreadful
full-time mother if I'd resented being at home all the time
when I wanted to work. A woman needs to be able to
choose a career if she wants one and not be made to feel
guilty. Women have enough to fee! guilty about.'
'Oh,' said Stephen, obviously astonished that a woman
like Vida had ever done anything more taxing than lift a
bejewelled hand to attract the attention of a passing waiter.
'Just because women can bear children doesn't mean
they're unable to harbour the same sort of career ambitions
as a man,' she said, this time giving him the benefit of
her crystal-sharp grey gaze. 'Surely there are women
executives in your company who have children?'
'Well, yes. That's different.'
'How is it different?' asked Olivia, unable to take his
attitude any more.
'It's what you're used to,' Stephen argued, still talking to
Vida. "I want my daughter to have what I had.'
His daughter! thought Olivia- What about our daughter?
'My mother never worked outside the home,' he
explained pompously.
'Goodness!' laughed Vida throatily. 'If we all confined
ourselves to doing what our parents did, we'd be in trouble,
wouldn't we? My mother was a washerwoman in Hell's
Kitchen, married to the most notorious drunkard in New
York who beat her every day of their married life when he
was around, which wasn't very often, until she hit him over
the head with a skillet and he left.'
You could have fitted an entire honeydew melon into
the gaping hole that was Stephen's mouth, Olivia thought
with amusement.
'That's amazing,' she said, while her husband recovered
his composure. 'Your mother sounds like a formidable
woman.'
'You betcha.' Vida stood up, a twinkle in her eye. 'You
and I must have a cup of coffee some day, Olivia. Maybe
you'll be able to persuade Evie to come along too.
She grimaced. 'I'll do my best.'
'We'd better go.' Stephen announced, finishing his wine
rapidly. 'Everyone else seems to have and we don't want to
overstay our welcome. Thanks for everything, Vida. We
must say goodbye to Andrew.'
He shook her hand quickly and bustled Olivia into the
hall to collect their coats.
Olivia grinned to herself. She liked Vida, she decided.
Liked the way she'd taken on Stephen, gently but firmly,
and yet never appeared to imply that Olivia was somehow a doormat because she let him get away with
his chauvinistic attitudes.
Instead, Vida had teased him and showed him that while
some women fitted into his vision of life, many didn't.
Olivia would have loved to be able to talk to Stephen
like that: standing her ground firmly. Hell, she'd have
loved to be able to talk to him at all, to tell him that
teaching was driving her mad and that one unruly class
had undermined her so much her self-confidence was
shot. But if she said she couldn't cope with teaching,
something she'd done for years, Stephen would be sure to
say she was obviously unfit to work full stop. There'd be
no point saying she could teach younger children or
maybe at night classes.
She kissed Andrew and Rosie goodbye and they left,
trudging through the rain towards the Lodge. Glancing at
her husband's set profile as he marched alongside her, she
almost regretted getting involved in the conversation with
Vida.
But she was entitled to her own opinions, Olivia
decided. She'd humour him out of his bad mood. Someone
like Vida wouldn't bother humouring him. She'd let him
stew for a few hours and get over it. Olivia, however, liked
a quiet life. Humouring Stephen was one of her most
finely honed skills these days.

'Vida,' said Rosie, standing at the kitchen door with a glass
of orange juice heavily diluted with vodka, 'was your
mother really a washerwoman and was your father an
alcoholic?'
The older woman tidied away the remnants of the party
nibbles from the dining-room table.
'Goodness, no, dear,' she said briskly. 'I just needed to
take the wind out of that particular gentleman's sails.'
She grinned at Rosie. A conspiratorial grin.
Rosie, who loathed Stephen with a vengeance, grinned
back. 'Welcome to the family, Vida!'
The dogs, who were worn out from begging for party
food all evening and had retreated to their baskets to sleep
off an excess of sausage rolls, started barking manically in
the kitchen.
'Olivia or Stephen must have forgotten something,' Vida
said.
'Yeah, like his sense of humour,' added Rosie. She ran to
the front door and wrenched it open.
Cara stood in the doorway, rain streaming down her face
and dripping on to the floor as she fumbled for a door key.
Her hair was plastered to her head and her coat looked like
she'd been swimming in it.
'Hi, Rosie,' she said, wearily unhooking her rucksack
with frozen fingers. 'Sorry I'm late,' she added as her father
appeared to greet her. 'Bloody bus broke down and we all
had to sit for an hour and a half until they got a new one.
Mind you, it's so wet I could have swum here faster.' She
grinned. 'What have I missed?'

Dried off, wearing fresh clothes and with her hair frizzing
in a halo of curls around her head after a speedy blast of
the hairdryer, Cara sat at the kitchen table and wolfed
down a plate of reheated party food. The dogs flanked her,
drooling every time she raised a succulent bit of sausage
roll to her mouth.
Evie, who'd only emerged from her bedroom ten minutes
previously when she'd made sure Vida had gone home for the night, sat at the far end of the table and toyed with
a cup of lemon tea. They were alone. Rosie had retreated
into the sitting room to watch the TV and smoke a
forbidden cigarette out the window, while Andrew Fraser
had gone next door to return two silver platters he'd
borrowed.
'I don't see what's wrong with her,' protested Cara, who'd
met her future stepmother briefly. Granted, ten minutes
with Vida who'd said, 'I'd better go home and let Evie come
downstairs,' wasn't the basis for an in-depth character analysis.
But Cara had seen the way her father's eyes lit up when
he looked at his fiancee and she was happy for him.
Just because her own lovelife was about as successful as
man's attempts to reach Pluto didn't mean she wanted
everyone else to suffer romantically. She had a totally
different view of her father's future from her older sister.
Cara had lived with Andrew for longer as a widower than
as a happily married man so she'd seen him enjoy flirting
with his neighbours, seen him look a little wistfully at
couples. Evie would have snapped at any woman who'd
dared to look crossways at her beloved dad.
They also had very different views about mothers. Cara
had daydreamed about a real mother when she was
younger: for Evie, there'd only ever be one mother and she
was dead. Nothing and no one could replace her, Cara
knew that. But Vida wasn't a replacement - she was a new
partner for their father, someone to love him and care for
him when they weren't there.
She attempted to say some of this.
'Vida seems lovely and they're great together. He's been
on his own for so long, he deserves some happiness.'
Evie shot her a look that'd curdle milk.
'Jeez, I hope the wind doesn't change and you get stuck
like that,' muttered Cara, eyeing her sister's sour face.
'You just don't see, do you?' hissed Evie.
'See what?'
'See that she's after Dad because he's lonely and doesn't
understand what sort of woman she is! She'll clean him
out in a wet week and what'll he be left with then?
Nothing!'
Cara groaned as she speared a bit of mini-brioche. 'Be
reasonable, Evie. What's she going to clean him out of?
The family fortune? The heirlooms? Last time I looked, the
cottage wasn't exactly bulging with the sort of bits and
pieces that'd make an antique dealer gibber with excitement,
unless the hall table is secretly Louis Quatorze
instead of mail-order self-assembly.'
'It's not just that . . .' Evie looked around blindly, still
hurting terribly and astonished that Cara couldn't see
things the way she did: that Vida Andersen was a money
grabbing professional widow who'd break their father's
fragile heart and . . . and . . . change things. Change things
forever. Cara was so bloody gullible she had no idea what
was going to happen. Did she not care?
'Evie,' Cara said gently, knowing exactly how left out her
sister was feeling at the thought of being supplanted in
their father's affections. Old beyond her years in every
other aspect of her life, Evie was still like a six-year-old
Daddy's girl when it came to Andrew. 'Dad is entitled to a
companion, someone to spend the rest of his life with. I
know it's difficult to think of anyone taking Mum's
place . . .'
'It's different for me,' cried Evie in anguish.
'What do you mean?' asked Cara, pushing her half
finished food away.
'You don't remember her the way I do.'
'What do you know about what I remember?'
demanded Cara. 'You never even talk to me anymore, so
what do you know about how I feel?'
'I know you can't remember very much about when she
died because you were only six; I was sixteen. I remember
how much Dad cried when she died, I remember that!'
Cara gazed at her sister's flushed face and took a deep
breath. She wasn't going to lose her temper. She'd vowed
to sort out all the friction between them over the next few
days. She couldn't ruin it all with one massive row. 'Mum's
dead,' she said gently. 'Dad marrying again doesn't mean
he doesn't remember her or miss her. It's a new beginning
for him. You're marrying Simon, for God's sake. Can't you
be happy for Dad?'
'You're so naive,' Evie said hotly. 'That's always been
your problem. You let people walk all over you, Cara. You
do it in work or you'd have been promoted by now. I've no
control over your life but I won't let Dad get walked all
over by that bitch!'
Cara gaped at her, shocked. 'I don't let people walk all
over me!' she stuttered.
'Yes, you do,' fired back Evie heatedly, not even thinking
what she was saying because she was so hysterical. 'I've
told you a hundred times to demand a raise so you can
afford more than that ice box of a flat you and Phoebe live
in, but you don't pay any attention.'
'It's none of your business what I get paid,' roared Cara,
finally getting angry.
'It is because I'm your sister!' roared back Evie.
'Yeah, my sister, not my bloody mother!' shrieked Cara.
'And don't you forget it. You think you can boss us all
around, even Dad. Well, you can't. Keep your stuck up
little nose out of my affairs!'
'Somebody has to stick their nose into your affairs
because you can't handle them very well, can you?'
Evie was scarlet in the face now, her eyes feverish. She
barely knew what she was saying. She knew she'd said far
too many awful things but shock meant she couldn't stop.
It was all too much for Cara. The misery of the past few
days, her awful hangover, and the damned bus breaking
down all caught up with her. She finally snapped.
'You don't know anything about me or my life because I
don't tell you anything and you don't ask,' she said, her
voice icily calm. 'I'm closer to the bus driver on the 16A
than I am to my own sister because I can't handle your
petty small-mindedness, your conviction that you know
everything and your jealousy.'
'Jealousy?' screamed Evie, too stunned to care how
much noise she made. 'What jealousy? What have I got to
be jealous of you for?'
'Because I'm not some uptight cow who's got a pole up
her backside and always thinks she's right. And,' Cara said
vehemently, 'who's marrying a bloke equally as bloody
boring and rigid just because he asked her! I can tell you
something - if you're not going to Dad's wedding, I'm not
going to put on a brave face of it when you marry pofaced
bloody Simon.'
With that, Cara threw her fork on to the table where it
hit her plate with a resounding clatter that roused both
dogs. She stomped out of the kitchen and pounded noisily
up the stairs, the way she had when she was a child and
Evie had given out to her for something.
Evie ran a hand faintly over her forehead, feeling the
beginnings of a terrible headache. What had she said?
Terrible, terrible things. Cara would never forgive her.
Whatever had happened to them? They'd been so close
once. What had turned them into strangers, people who
found it easier to hurt each other than to comfort? What
had made Cara so bitter, so angry? Wearily, she sank her
feverish head on to the cool of the old wooden table and
wished Christmas would disappear in a puff of smoke.
She'd meant to sort things out, to tell Cara she loved her
and that she wanted the best things in life for her. Now
she'd screwed it all up because she'd got the shock of her life. If only her father had told her, if only she'd been
prepared. She'd still have been hurt but at least she'd have
been able to hide it.
It wasn't his fault, though. Evie knew who'd really
messed up Christmas for them all. Vida. horrible Vida.
CHAPTER FIVE

Evie flicked on the lights in the office reception area with
a sigh. Another year. Another January. More snow. Shaking
wet flakes off her coat, she walked past the drooping
Christmas tree and past the scattering of pine needles that
littered the carpet.
Davis Wentworth had this fixation about real Christmas
trees and always insisted the company reception area had
one. Only because he didn't have to placate Marj, the
cleaner, who spent hours trying to pick out the pine
needles that had knitted themselves into the hard-wearing
nylon carpet, Evie thought as she unlocked the door to the
stairs. Poor Marj would go mad when she saw the state of
the floor. Not to mention how cross she'd get when she
saw the amount of fake snow plastered on the plate-glass
doors between floors as a result of Kev in Sales getting
drunk at lunch on the last day and going berserk drawing
rude Santas everywhere. Only Chippendales were supposed
to be as rampant as that, Evie laughed to herself as
she caught sight of one particularly sexy Santa who was en
route to deliver more than just a Christmas stocking.
She hadn't shown she was amused at the time, naturally.
She couldn't, not with the impressionable young temps
watching. Instead, she'd given Kev one of her fiercest
glares, told him he was in an office not the zoo, and warned
that if the Santas weren't gone by the time the boss saw
them, the only Christmas bonus he'd be getting was his
IMS.
All of which was untrue, because Davis was so shortsighted
he wouldn't have noticed a real half-naked Santa
standing in the stairwell, and even if he had, he wouldn't
have minded. But you had to have standards in an office,
Evie felt, otherwise things tell to pieces. If anyone knew she had a sense of humour, she'd never keep the place
under control.
Reminding herself to help poor Marj clean up the fake
snow, Evie flicked on the lights. It was half-eight on the
third day of January and the entire administrative part of
the office felt as if it had been deserted since the Titanic went down, instead of just ten days previously. There were
usually plenty of people at work by this time but the
combination of the bad weather - heavy snowfall for three
days - and the fact that the holidays were finally over, had
obviously made the staff of Wentworth Alarms collectively
turn over for one final snooze before getting up.
For the first time in her life, Evie wished she could have
done the same. She never minded going back after the
holidays, not usually. It was guilt. After more than a week
of not having to get up for work, she began to get anxious
and feel slovenly, as if she should be doing something, anything. Which was why her house was always spotless,
her airing cupboard more organised than a Benetton shop,
and why there were never, ever any clumps of dust and
hair under her furniture.
'I don't know how you're going to cope on honeymoon,
Mum,' Rosie had remarked the day before, when Evie had
routed her from her comfy position on the sofa watching
the Teletubbies, so that she could hoover under it. Standing
there in her socks and dressing gown with a half-finished
bowl of Frosties in her hand, Rosie watched while her
mother ruthlessly eradicated any stray bit of fluff that had
stupidly decided to live under her sofa.
'You'll be bored rigid lying on a beach all day for two
weeks,' Rosie remarked.
'I'll take books,' panted Evie, sticking the hoover nozzle
into the corners of the sofa to pick up any stray dust or
Frosties. And we won't be lying on a beach all day. Greece
is a fabulous country and we've so much to sec. I've always
wanted to travel, I've just never had the chance before.'
Actually, she'd never had the money. Bringing up Rosie
on her own had been tough and money had been very
tight. Apart from holidays in Ballymoreen, she and Rosie
had only been abroad three times: twice to a cottage in
Cornwall with Andrew and Cara, and once to Majorca
with Olivia when Rosie had been eleven. That had been
their best holiday ever. Sun, sandy beaches, welcoming
local restaurants and a lovely apartment in a quiet,
unspoilt part of the island. Sometimes, when she thought
about that holiday, Evie wished that Rosie, Olivia and
Sasha could accompany her and Simon on their honeymoon.
It was a strange idea, she knew that. But the
thought of being able to take the other three along
seemed so right somehow.
Evie climbed the stairs to the third floor, avoiding the lift
because she had to work off the five pounds she'd put on
misery eating over Christmas. She hadn't planned on
touching the sinful cream confections Vida had left in her
father's fridge, but they were impossible to resist. That one
forkful of chocolate log turned into two enormous slices
every time and before she knew it, Evie was walking
around with her jumper worn loosely over the waistband
of her jeans to hide the opened top button.
In the large office she shared with two other secretaries,
she dumped her handbag on to her desk and switched on
the heating. It was freezing in here, she thought. She made
herself a cup of coffee - black, because the milk hadn't
arrived yet - and sat down at her desk, cradling the hot
mug in her hands and wishing she was elsewhere. On a
beach in Greece, maybe. In the sweltering sun where
nobody could bother her with queries about missing files,
irate customers, lengthy, boring reports or whether she was
going to her father's wedding or not. She'd sit back on a
lounger, with a wrap carefully disguising her cellulite and
her belly . . .
'Is there anyone sitting here, mademoiselle?'
She turned her head, adjusting her Yves St Laurent sunglasses
to see who was blocking out the light. At first he was
just a shadow with the sun behind him. Then he moved under
the umbrella that shaded her striped lounger, and she could
see his face.
He was dark, like the handsome Greek waiters who smiled
at her each evening at dinner. But his proud, hawk-like face
wasn't smiling. The black eyes were inscrutable as he stared
down at her from his great height.
She could feel his eyes take in the shape of her beautiful
body in its expensive white swimsuit, with the ruched bodice
highlighting her full breasts and slender waist. Evie was glad
she'd worn her diamond bracelet on a whim that morning, so
he could tell she was a woman of substance, not some bored
bimbo sitting by the pool in the classy Elounda Mare waiting
for a millionaire to walk by.
She wondered if he could tell that her empire of luxury
clothes shops in Milan and Paris no longer fulfilled her, that
she needed the love of a strong, proud man to do that.
'There's nobody sitting here,' she said softly.
'Good,' he replied. 'I have been watching you from the
hotel, I hoped you were alone . . .'
'Evie, Happy New Year!' shrieked Lorraine, bustling in
through the door wearing what had to be her Christmas
present from her boyfriend: an ocelot-print fake fur coat.
'The same to you, Lorraine,' Evie said warmly. She was
very fond of the other girl. 'Love the coat. Did Craig give it
to you?'
'Yes.' Lorraine, a skinny twenty-four-year-old brunette
who was one of the few people Evie knew who could carry off a bulky fake fur coat, did a twirl for her benefit.
'It's beautiful,' she said appreciatively, getting up to run
her fingers through the silky synthetic fur.
'You try it on,' urged Lorraine, slipping the coat off.
'No, I've put on five pounds, I'd look like a giant teddy
bear in it,' Evie replied gloomily, 'or else something
escaped from the zoo.'
Lorraine carefully hung the coat on the coat rack and
immediately made her way to the worn tea tray to boil the
kettle.
'Tea?' she asked.
'No, thanks, I've got some coffee. And the milkman
hasn't been yet.'
'Blast,' said Lorraine who liked her tea very milky. 'So
how was your holiday? And what did Simon give you for
Christmas?'
Evie brightened up at the second part of the question.
Describing her holiday without the use of the words
'complete disaster' would have been difficult and she
didn't want to get into a big discussion about her problems
in case she got tearful. But talking about Simon's present
was different.
Smiling, she hooked back her hair so that one of the tiny
seed pearl and gold earrings Simon had bought her were
visible. When he'd given them to her after her return from
Ballymoreen, she'd been thrilled.
'Lovely.' cooed Lorraine. 'Very subtle. It must have been
hard not having Christmas together?' she said, poking
around in the cupboard under the tea things, looking for
the biscuits.
'Well, it's his last Christmas as a bachelor and he and his
mother have got into the habit of spending it with their
relatives.' Evie paused. 'It was easier this way. Of course I
missed him but we'll have next Christmas together.'
Christmas together? She couldn't wait. Lounging around
in their dressing gowns, watching soppy movies on the box
and snuggling up in front of a roaring fire . . . OK, so
neither she nor Simon had a working fireplace in their
homes, but they'd see about it.
'You won't miss the time till the wedding,' Lorraine
remarked.
Evie grimaced. 'Don't talk to me about that,' she said.
'I've got a list of things to do that's a mile long and I
haven't the energy to start phoning people. You have no
idea how far in advance you have to book everything. I
thought it was just the hotel but you've got to book
flowers so early, you'd think they were growing them from
seed to your very own specifications.'
'It must be lovely planning your wedding, though,'
Lorraine said dreamily. 'The dress, the reception, your
bouquet . . .' She went off into wedding fantasy land,
obviously imagining herself and Craig sailing down the
aisle in a cloud of tulle.
'Yes,' said Evie, brightly. It was funny really, but since
hearing about Vida and her father, she hadn't thought
that much about her own wedding at all. Maybe it was
spending so much time away from Simon over the
holidays but she'd barely given September the twelfth a
thought.
'Anyway,' said Lorraine suspiciously, staring at Evie's
china mug, 'what are you drinking coffee for? I thought
you were on the fruit juice diet?'
Evie smiled ruefully. 'Actually I was on the "sausage roll,
Christmas cake and as much stuffing as you can cat" diet
so I thought having a cup of coffee to wake me up was
harmless in comparison.'
Her phone rang suddenly, its peremptory sound making
both women jump. She picked it up wearily.
'Evie,' squeaked the receptionist in a harassed voice.
'This caller is looking for the sales department and she
insists she can't wait until they arrive. Will you handle her?
I can't calm her down.'
'Of course,' said Evie automatically. The New Year had
begun.

'What I don't understand,' she said to Olivia as they
queued up for sandwiches in the pub across the road from
the barren industrial estate where Wentworth Alarms was
situated, 'is why Vida wants me at the wedding in the first
place? She obviously can't stand me, and would you want
your new husband's disapproving daughter standing at the
altar beside you on your wedding day?'
'I don't think she hates you, Evie,' Olivia said, somewhat
wearily. They'd been over this subject endlessly since
Christmas and she no longer had anything to say about it.
Evie talked about Vida constantly, worrying away like a
dog with a bone - wondering why her father loved Vida
and did it mean he loved her any less. Should she even go
to the wedding? It wasn't as if they wanted her at it, she
was tearfully convinced of that. And if she did go, what
could she wear that would compete with that rich bitch
who obviously had a wardrobe full of designer gear thanks
to her last bloody husband, whom she'd probably poisoned
for his insurance money.
Because Olivia loved Evie and knew her so well, she
knew her friend's harping on and on wasn't because she
actually disliked her stepmother-to-be, but because she was
feeling desperately threatened. After years of seeing herself
as the most important woman in Andrew Fraser's life, Evie
simply couldn't cope with being relegated to second place.
It had simply devastated her.
They'd discussed it so often that Olivia had run out of
things to say. What she desperately wanted to talk to Evie
about was how depressed she'd been feeling since
Christmas, Stephen had been monosyllabic all week, as if
actually pining for the cut and thrust of the office, and had
bitten her head off when she'd suggested going out for a
day. Even worse, the end of the school holidays loomed
and Olivia felt sick at the thought of facing another year
of teaching.
Desperate to be cheered up, she'd left Sasha with her best
friend from playgroup and driven out to Evie's office for a
spur-of- the -moment lunch because she longed to confide in
her friend. But with Evie still incapable of having a conversation
without the word 'Vida' in it, Olivia hadn't broached
the subject of how utterly dispirited she herself was.
The girl behind the bar ladled out two bowls of mushroom
soup, handed them rolls, and they moved along the
counter to the sandwiches displayed unappetisingly in
clingfilm.
'I'm not going, I've decided,' continued Evie, jaw firm as
she deliberated over whether to plump for plastic-looking
cheese or dried-up chicken.
Olivia waited until they were sitting down before making
her point.
'Evie,' she said gently, 'you're going to hate me for saying
this but I'm your friend and I have to.' She paused to take
her lunch off the tray. 'I know you feel desperately threatened and hurt because of how quickly they got
engaged and everything but, believe me, if you don't go to
the wedding you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Don't
you understand?' She rushed on before Evie could say a
word. 'Think about what you're doing by not going. You're
telling your father you don't care and that you disapprove
of him in the most public way possible, and you're making
Rosie choose between you. She can't possibly go if you
don't. She's too loyal to you to do that but she loves her
grandfather. Can't you see?'
Hazel eyes huge with tears, Evie stared at her oldest
friend. She looked as if she'd been stabbed with her soup
spoon. Her lower Up quivered pitifully, making Olivia feel
like she'd just clubbed a baby seal. Despite the hard
exterior Evie displayed so defiantly, she was as soft as butter
on the inside and was incredibly easy to hurt. She'd been
hurt so many times before that Olivia hated herself for
adding to that. She grabbed her friend's hand in remorse.
'I'm sorry, Evie,' she said desperately. "I didn't mean to
hurt you but I had to say it.'
Her friend bit her lip in misery and for a moment, Olivia
was afraid she was going to break down and sob. But
instead Evie took a deep breath, hiccuped and whispered:
'You're right.'
Olivia sighed with sheer relief. 'I'm so glad, Evie. I know
it'll be difficult but it's the right thing.'
Evie picked up her napkin and wiped her eyes with it.
'You're right about making Rosie choose between me and
Dad, and you're right about how awful it would be if I
publicly turned against him. I keep thinking about it,
worrying about what I should do and hating myself for
being childish about this.' She gave a wry little laugh. "I
can't believe it's really practical, common-sense me behaving
like a prima donna . . .'
'You're not a prima donna,' interrupted Olivia. 'You're
normally very level-headed but this has knocked you for
six.'
'Well,' Evie said ruefully, 'the last time I lost my head, I
was about seven and somebody broke the leg off my Tiny
Tears doll! I'm a bit old for having tantrums now, it's just
that I lose control when I think of that woman taking
advantage of Dad . . .'
The smile faded and Evie's eyes were as hard as agates as
she looked at Olivia. 'You're wrong about Vida. She hates
me and I hate her back. I don't trust her and if she hurts
Dad, I'll kill her. I will.'
Olivia had never seen such a grim expression on her
friend's face, one that frightened her. But she didn't want
to start another pious homily.
'Don't be so angry, it'll eat you up inside, Evie,' was all
she said. 'Come on, let's have our lunch. I can't send you
back to the office looking that angry and red-faced - the
rest of the staff will think I slapped you!'
Evie laughed, a high-pitched little sound, and the tension
was broken. 'The rest of the staff wouldn't dream of
thinking any such thing,' she said, managing a weak grin.
They think nobody would dare slap me. They certainly
wouldn't.'
'You don't mean to tell me they're all taken in by your
tough-as-old-boots routine?' Olivia asked with her mouth
full of tuna sandwich. 'Don't they know what a complete
old softie you are?'
Evie shuddered. 'I couldn't bear it if they did. The only
way to run an office is with an iron hand in an iron glove,'
she said loftily.
'Can you give me hints on how to use that technique
with a crowd of delinquent school kids?' Olivia asked.
'Another term of 3A will drive me nuts.'
'They can't be that bad, surely?' Evie said, not noticing
how dismal Olivia looked. 'You've got to show them who's
boss.'
'Easier said than done.' Olivia stared into her soup and felt
her heart sink at the thought that in four days' time she'd be
facing 3A, all hyperactive after Christmas and ready to make
her life hell. Or more hellish than it felt already.
'I never had this problem with the fifth and sixth years,'
she said. 'But when the other home economics teacher left
last year, the replacement wanted to teach the older girls
and, being only part-time, I ended up with the horrible
third years. There are a couple of little terrors in that class.'
She put down her spoon. Her appetite, which hadn't been
good for days, had totally vanished. 'None of the other
teachers can bear the troublemakers but I'm the only one
who can't control them.'
'They're probably all jealous as sin of you,' Evie
declared. An expert at giving orders, she couldn't understand
why her friend was having so much trouble with
unruly pupils.
Evie had always imagined that one look at the ethereal
Olivia would stun any class into silence. She was so lovely
looking, with her flowing blonde hair, model's bone structure
and long, slim body. If Evie had only looked like that,
she was convinced her life would have been different. Like
a romantic novel, full of real-life heroes waiting to whisk
her off to glorious destinations with sun, yachts, magnificent
castles and family jewels. And no overdraft, lonely
nights watching TV, months of existing on the cheapest
cuts of meat because they were so broke - and definitely
no envelope-stuffing at nights to pay for Rosie's school trip
to Stratford-upon-Avon.
But Olivia never capitalised on her beauty or even
seemed to be aware of it. At school, she'd worn the
drabbest clothes and had never hung around with the
more advanced girls in St Agatha's who'd been dating since
the age of fifteen. Instead, she'd stayed best friends with
Evie and together they'd steered clear of boys until they
were seventeen. Evie, plump, talkative and a tad bossy to
cover her insecurity, hadn't exactly been inundated with
offers from the local boys, so this hadn't been too much of
a hardship. But the desperately unsure and anxious Olivia
could have had her pick of the male populace, if only she'd
wanted to.
But then, Evie thought darkly, how could any girl be
normal when her teenage years happened to coincide with
the worst years of her parents' alcoholism? Having your
drunken mother screech abuse at you every second day for
no apparent reason wouldn't exactly instill you with
confidence, no matter bow stunning you looked.
'Are you really dreading going back to teaching?' she
asked Olivia.
Her friend nodded glumly.
'Stephen's thrilled lo be back at work. I think he's bored
hanging around the house with me.' She didn't say that she
was sure he was bored by her company. It was as obvious
as the nose on his face. Her husband was bored rigid by
her, preferred talking to total strangers at parties than
spending time with her, and his face became ten times
more animated when he was discussing work than it ever
was when she was talking to him. Suddenly, Olivia didn't
feel as if she could reveal all this to Evie. She felt too raw
to discuss it. Too much of a failure.
"Course he's not bored,' Evie interrupted. 'He's probably
got the post-Christmas blues like the rest of us.'
Olivia shook her head morosely, thinking that Stephen
had post and pre Christmas blues. 'No, it's not that.
Yesterday I suggested we spend our last day going for a drive out to Howth and having lunch in one of those
lovely little pubs, but he said he wanted to catch up on
work and spent the day with his nose stuck in his briefcase,'
she said. 'If there hadn't been a decent film on the
TV, I'd have gone round the bend. It was Sommersby. I love
Richard Gere.'
Evie sighed in sympathy and waved at the lounge boy,
trying to get his attention so they could get coffee. He
ignored her.
'You try.' she said.
Olivia raised her perfect profile, flicked back a strand of
fair hair and looked hopefully in the direction of the bar. A
barman and the lounge boy arrived at their table like a
shot, both looking eagerly at the elegant blonde dressed in
sleek pewter wool.
'Two coffees, please?' she said, with a polite smile that
didn't reach her silver-grey eyes.
'How do you do that?' asked Evie, shaking her head. 'No,
don't bother answering. Anyway, you should have insisted
that Stephen go for a drive with you. Heaven knows he
spends enough time working, it wouldn't kill him to go
back to work unprepared like a normal person.'
'I know. But his job is so important . . .' Olivia said
automatically.
'You and Sasha are important too,' Evie pointed out,
putting too much sugar in her coffee to give herself energy
for the afternoon ahead.
She failed to notice Olivia grow even more morose as
she thought of her darling Sasha. Olivia's eyes welled up at
the thought of the beautiful little girl with those huge
trusting eyes so sad as she watched her mother steeped in
misery.
She wasn't even a good mother anymore. She'd cried
that morning making Sasha's breakfast, big fat tears raining
down on the toast and honey as soon as Stephen had
slammed the front door without kissing her goodbye.
That was no way to behave in front of a four year old.
She felt so ashamed. Here she was telling her best friend
how to sort out her life, how she should go to her father's
wedding, while she, Olivia, couldn't sort out anything. She
felt useless; boring, stupid and quite, quite useless.
Her head bent so Evie couldn't see her brimming eyes,
Olivia took several sips of scalding coffee. She had to get
out of the pub before she broke down completely and
disgraced herself.
'Gosh, look at the time,' she said with a gasp. 'I said I'd
pick Sasha up by two-fifteen and I'll never be back in time.
I'd better go.' Feeling dreadful to be racing out on Evie
under false pretences, Olivia got up abruptly, grabbed her
coat and kissed her friend quickly on the cheek without
looking her in the eye.
'I'll drive you back to your car,' Evie offered.
'No, it's only across the road,' Olivia said anxiously. 'I'll
walk. Finish your coffee.' And she rushed off!
What she really wanted to do was sit down and sob her
heart out to Evie but this wasn't the time or the place.
Evie was caught up in her own problems and Olivia
couldn't burden her with any more. Olivia had to sort this
out on her own.

Back at her desk with a sheaf of messages in front of her,
Evie thought about Olivia's rapid departure and felt guilty
for rattling on about Vida and her father. Olivia was right,
she thought: she had been obsessing about the wedding.
Endlessly, she realised, shamefaced. And poor Olivia had
put up with her for ages and obviously wanted to talk
about something but Evie had been so tied up with her
own problems, she hadn't noticed.
Feeling ashamed, she picked up the phone and dialled
Olivia's home number. The answering machine clicked on,
with Stephen's deep, self-important voice announcing that
the MacKenzies were not at home and to leave a message
after the beep. 'After the beep,' he emphasised, as if he was
talking to some spectacularly dumb caller who'd never
heard an answering machine before. God, that man loved
the sound of his own voice. He'd make anyone feel stupid
with his patronising manner, Evie thought crossly. He did it
to Olivia all the time. And he was so self-important, you'd
think he was chairman the way he went on and on about
his job and how vital he was to the company.
Imagine not wanting to spend the last day of Christmas
with his family and refusing point blank to go for a drive
in Howth so he could pore over his papers. He really was
very selfish. Because he travelled so much, he and Olivia
spent very little time together. Yet Stephen never seemed
to understand that playing happy families was terribly
important to Olivia, mainly because she'd never had one
before. Doing normal family things like going for drives or
having a cosy day at home stretched out in front of the
TV with a tin of biscuits and some tea, instead of a quart
of gin and an argument, was Olivia's idea of sheer bliss.
The only time she'd ever done normal family stuff as a
child had been with Evie's family, which was why they
were so close. Stephen just couldn't understand that. And
he was so obsessed with his bloody career he didn't
appear to care.
'Livvy,' Evie said to the answering machine, using the pet
name she'd called her friend by when they were younger,
'sorry I was blathering on and on about Vida at lunch. It
must have been a real pain in the neck and I'm sorry. Give
me a buzz later, will you? We should have a proper chat and
not a word about my family, I promise. 'Bye.'
It was only when she'd hung up that Evie remembered
she was going to Simon's for dinner, that she wouldn't be
home until late. Damn! She'd ring Olivia later, when she
was sure to be home, and have a talk then.
As it happened, she never got a moment to herself all
afternoon. When Davis came back from lunch, he called
her into his office to get through the mound of paperwork
on his desk. He looked tired, as if he'd been burning the
midnight oil. His plump face was larger than ever after the
inevitable excess of Christmas, the treble chin spilling over
on to the collar of his shirt. But there were giant hollows
under his eyes, yellowing hollows that gave his rounded
face a strangely sickly look. He was ill, Evie realised with a
sense of shock.
After an hour spent going through paperwork, he
seemed worn out.
'I've some important letters to send to our key customers
about the changes in accounting we're introducing,' he
said. He sat back in his chair, his face sweating. 'I know
what I want to say but . . .' He looked at her pleadingly.
'Could you draft them, Evie?' he asked. 'You know how to
do it better than I do.'
She nodded. She'd been in Wentworth Alarms for
twelve years and knew as much about the running of the
company as he did. She'd been his assistant for seven of
those years, from the moment it became apparent she was
wasted in reception.
'Of course,' she said. 'I'll handle it. Davis,' she added
hesitantly, 'do you want to go home? You look tired.'
'Yes,' he muttered. 'Something I ate the other day, I'm
still not over it . . .'
'Food poisoning. That really takes it out of you,' Evie
agreed, not believing for one second that her boss was
suffering the after-effects of food poisoning. He looked so
wretched, so ill, it had to be more than that. But if Davis
wanted her to believe he merely had a sick stomach, she'd
go along with the subterfuge. 'I'll deal with this and you
should go home, via the chemist's maybe to get something
for your stomach,' she said idly. 'Or even go to the doctor
and get a shot. It never hurts, does it, to get an injection to
fight the nausea? Rosie had a very sensitive stomach when
she was little and the only answer when she got really ill
was to go to the doctor for an injection.'
He didn't answer for a moment. 'Yes, maybe I'll do that,'
he said finally.
When he'd left, Evie spent the rest of the afternoon
working on the letters. Her mind was half on her work
and half on her boss. There was something wrong with
Davis, that was for sure. He'd never been the healthiest of
individuals but he looked so ill . . . As she typed and
answered calls, Evie worried about him. Widowed
recently, he had nobody else to worry about him. Hopefully
the doctor would notice how dreadful he looked and
do some tests.
It was five-twenty-five when the sound of Lorraine
turning off her word processor with a sigh of relief made
Evie look at her watch again. She'd have to race if she
wanted to get through the rush-hour traffic to Simon's
house by half-six. But she had five minutes to spare to ring
Olivia.
Pulling on her coat with one hand, she dialled the
familiar number with the other. The phone rang and the
machine clicked on again. Strange, she thought. Olivia was
always at home at that time, getting dinner ready for
Stephen. She was an incredible cook and whenever Evie
dropped in on her way home from work, the scent
emanating from Olivia's kitchen was always enough to put
off the most dedicated dieter. She wasn't the sort of
woman to knock together a sausage casserole with the
contents of her store cupboard and a tin opener. She went
for the whole works, gorgeous and elaborate meals that
made your mouth water.
And Evie knew that half the time, they ended up in the
freezer because Stephen was working late and couldn't get
home in time. If Evie had been married to him they'd have
ended up in the bin - or all over his face when he arrived
home late for the tenth time in a row.
His voice came on the answering machine again and
Evie grimaced. 'Sorry I missed you earlier, Olivia,' she said.
'I'm going to Simon's tonight so I won't be home but
please phone me tomorrow so we can have a chat, 'Bye.
Chin up.'
She didn't know why she'd added that bit at the end.
'Chin up.' It wasn't as if Olivia had said anything was
wrong, but in retrospect Evie was sure there was.

Olivia stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom and let
the phone ring. She heard Evie's voice coming from the
machine in the hall but didn't move to pick it up. Instead,
she stared closely at her reflection. Her mother was right,
she was deathly pale. She needed something to warm her
up, she decided. Like plastic surgery or an injection of
personality.
People often said she was beautiful. Everyone did, in
fact. But beauty didn't mean anything, Olivia had no
respect for the beauty she was supposed to have, she
hadn't earned it or worked for it. It wasn't the same as
being vivacious and witty like Rosie or clever and kind like
Evie.
It was just there: high cheekbones and perfect lips.
Nothing more, nothing deeper. It was shallow. Architecture.
A lovely facade when she really needed internal lights
and something people were interested in. Evie was pretty,
feminine and cute with her little nose and her undulating
walk.
But that wasn't what made Simon love her. It was what
was inside: her personality and her drive. Beauty was
nothing really if you lacked all the other important things
and Olivia lacked them all. Even her own husband wasn't
interested in her. To him, she was just a lovely cold doll he
took down from the mantelpiece when he felt like looking
at it.
'Mummy,' said a small voice. Olivia looked down to see
Sasha peeping around the bedroom door, her eyes even
huger than usual. 'Emily got marker on the couch. Pink
marker,' she added. 'I told her she wasn't allowed to bring
them out of my room but she did.'
Olivia felt herself go as white as Stephen's precious
leather couches. Those bloody markers were almost impossible
to erase when they got on something. He would have
a fit if he found out, unless she could remove the mark
before he got home. She just prayed it wasn't somewhere
noticeable and that it was small. Very small.
'Don't worry, Sasha,' she said calmly, bending down to
kiss her daughter on the forehead. 'Well sort it out.'
Sasha didn't look convinced. 'Daddy will be cross,' she
said anxiously.
'No, he won't,' Olivia replied, doing her best to inject
confidence into her voice. She took Sasha by the hand.
'Show me where the mark is and I'll sort it out.'

Evie sat in her car on the way to Simon's house and day
dreamed.
'She was wearing a beautiful evening dress and an ocelot
coat, and didn't look like a teddy bear in it. Instead, she
looked like a famous movie star en route for a premiere, more
glamorous than Sharon Stone and utterly untouchable.
'Madame, let me take your coat?'
His voice was like the rest of him: cultured and elegant. But
the formal dinner jacket he wore with such panache contrasted
with the shock of dark hair that reached his collar and
curled gently around the nape of his strong neck. Everything
about the stranger's dress was conservative, yet his rippling
black curb and the gleam in his dark eyes showed a different
side to his nature, a wilder and dangerous side.
Evie moved her head graciously. 'No, thank you, I prefer to
wear it. The evening has grown cold.'
Standing on the balcony of the stately house by Lake
Geneva, the air had indeed grown cold and she could feel
herself shiver in the spaghetti-strapped black silk dress.
She wasn't sure why she was there in the first place, why
she'd accepted the invitation from the mysterious Count
Romulo to a party in his home when she didn't know the man.
He was a playboy, her friends told her eagerly, as they
accepted their own invitations. Whatever that meant, Evie
thought. She shivered again, conscious of the handsome man
in black watching her.
'Come inside, you are cold.'
'It's too noisy,' she said, thinking of the crowded room of
people, all eager to meet their host.
'There's a quieter room upstairs.' He indicated a spiral
staircase to one side of the balcony, hidden by a bay tree in a
huge planter.
'Should we be making ourselves at home like that?' Evie
asked, arching one eyebrow.
'It is my home,' he said simply. I am Count Romulo. I
threw this party to meet you . . .'
Evie loved Simon's town house. She loved the pastel
walls, the neat collection of classical CDs, the pot plants he
cared for so carefully and the pale carpet that covered every room, apart from his white-tiled en-suite bathroom
which was a bit clinical for her taste. Of course, she
couldn't see Rosie ever fitting into Simon's pristine home.
His immaculate bachelor pad wasn't built for a rangy
teenager who draped coats over the banisters, left opened
magazines on every available surface and leg hairs in the
sink, and liked to lounge on the sofa watching TV, eating
breakfast cereal and talking to her friends on the phone all
at the same time.
Evie and Simon hadn't finalised what they were going to
do about living arrangements when they got married. She
didn't think his house would be suitable for all three of
them, because it was so small. But she somehow couldn't
see him living in her home either.
The more she thought about it, the more Evie became
convinced that they'd have to sell both houses and buy
something else. Which would mean a big mortgage. She
hated the thought of being in debt. What would happen if
Simon left her or if he died? Where would she be then?
Broke and on her own, the way she had been seventeen
years ago. She shivered at the memory.
'Evie!' Simon opened the door wearing a butcher's
apron over his white shirt. He'd taken off his tie and
opened the top two buttons of his shirt, making him look
young and vulnerable. With his sandy hair standing up
where he'd raked it anxiously, he looked more like thirty
one than forty-one.
She stood on her tiptoes to kiss him lightly on the
mouth, smelling rather than tasting onions on his breath.
'What are you cooking?' she asked, as she followed him
through into the pale green kitchen.
'Roast chicken, chips and deep fried onion rings,' he
replied, glasses steaming up as he peered cautiously into
the deep fat fryer.
'Lovely,' Evie murmured, thinking regretfully of the
calorific content of a deep fried meal. She had told Simon
she was desperate to lose a few pounds, but he'd obviously
forgotten in his enthusiasm to use the deep fat fryer his
mother had given him for Christmas.
Still, it was glorious to be pampered, to have somebody
else cooking dinner for her. Rosie never made dinner if she
could possibly help it, and when she did it was beans on
toast with yoghurt for dessert.
Are we having apple fritters for dessert to continue the
deep fried theme?' Evie inquired with a chuckle, wrapping
her arms around Simon from behind and hugging him.
He laughed. 'I never thought of that or I'd have bought
some. I can't help it that I can't cook,' he added apologetically.
'You can't go wrong with this stuff He dislodged Evie
as he hurried over to the oven to check the chicken, which
turned out to be roasting in a pool of grease.
'Simon! That's swimming in fat,' she exclaimed. 'Drain
most of it away. It'll taste disgusting.'
'I didn't know how much to put in,' he mumbled,
holding the tin uneasily with a pair of hideous pink lobster
oven gloves. 'I've never done an entire chicken before, only
chicken breasts.'
'Here, let me.' Evie took over, expertly handling the
heavy roasting tin. 'You should have made something simple,'
she scolded as she rescued their dinner from drowning.
'I wanted to impress you.' Simon stood miserably by the
sink, still wearing his lobster gloves. 'I can't dial up the
Chinese takeaway every time you come to dinner.'
He looked so forlorn that she relented.
'You don't need to impress me,' she said firmly.
After dinner, they sat and watched TV, Simon's arm
around Evie's shoulders. She leaned against his chest
comfortably, slipped off her shoes and curled her feet up under her on the couch. He flicked channels until he came
to a documentary on the most thrilling car chases of all
time. As the world had only had cars for the past century,
Evie thought the series title was a bit misleading but she
said nothing. Car chases bored her to tears.
After fifteen minutes, she'd seen enough helicopter
footage of speeding Corvettes to last her a lifetime. She
shifted in her seat, moving closer to Simon. Her fingers
curled under the edges of his shirt, gently stroking the bare
skin.
Slowly, she unbuttoned his shirt and her fingers slid
further up his chest to stroke him tenderly. Then she
gently moved her hands down over his torso, lingering
tantalisingly close to his nipples. Still Simon said nothing.
When she moved her face towards him to nuzzle his neck
and he didn't make a single noise of appreciation, Evie
gave up. Pulling away, she looked up at his face with
vexation. He was gazing at the television raptly and
seemed unaware she was even there.
Evie dragged herself upright, snatched a newspaper from
the coffee table and sat away from him. Honestly, she
didn't know why she bothered. They sat there without
talking for another half an hour when Simon decided he
wanted another cup of tea.
'Do you want some, darling?' he asked solicitously,
seemingly unaware of Evie's temper, despite the glacial
expression on her face.
'No,' she said sulkily.
'Yell if you change your mind,' he said, heading for the
kitchen, blithely unaware of her mood. 'I'm making a
quick cup before that new programme about killers on
death row starts. The trailers have been fascinating. There's
this guy who's been given a reprieve three times in the
past ten years and he's still appealing . . .'
Evie would have choked on her tea if she'd been
drinking any. Killers on death row? Wonderful. Simon was
obsessed with American television. He had all the satellite
channels and was glued to any programme about true
crime. He'd never bothered with the movie channels or
the Gold TV station - which Evie would have adored
because of all the re-runs of romantic mini-series. She'd
never been able to afford them herself, even though Rosie
had begged long enough.
'Everyone's got the movie channels,' her daughter had
moaned practically every day for a year.
In the end, Evie had nearly given in, because she didn't
want her beloved daughter to miss out on anything her
friends had, even if it meant she wouldn't be able to afford
to buy the new winter coat she needed. And then Rosie
had stopped asking for the movie channel.
'We could get it,' Evie had offered. 'I can afford to now.'
Rosie shrugged. 'There's no need, Mum. It's great for
kids, you know, but I'll be going out in the evenings more
now.'
The ad break was over and Simon's programme was
starting.
'Hurry up,' she roared in the direction of the kitchen, 'or
you'll miss it.'
It was nine o'clock. She might as well go home. She'd
planned to stay until ten but what was the point if he was going to be glued to death row? At least at home she could
tidy up and get organised for the next day.
Simon placed a tray with two cups of tea and a packet of
her favourite biscuits on the coffee table in front of her.
Then he leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead.
'I know you said you didn't want any, but in case you'd
changed your mind, I made you a cup.' He kissed her
again. 'You need pampering and I like doing it.'
Speechless, Evie smiled up at him happily, plans to go
home immediately forgotten. He was so good to her.
They sat snuggled up on the couch, nibbling biscuits and
watching the grim stories of American criminals. When
Simon took off her shoes and made Evie put her feet up
on the couch, she leaned against him contentedly.

Ten minutes of careful rubbing with leather cleaner hadn't
worked: neither had fifteen minutes' scrubbing with cream
cleanser. Olivia was pretty sure that cream cleanser wasn't
good for leather couches but at this point, she didn't care.
She'd have put bleach on the couch if she thought it
would remove the bright pink squiggle, anything to avoid
the inevitable explosion that would occur when Stephen
saw it.
If only four-year-old Emily had managed to leave her
mark anywhere other than on the arm of the couch
Stephen liked to lounge on when he watched television. As
it was, the mark was quite noticeable and unless Olivia
draped herself over the arm of the couch all evening, not
getting up for anything, he was going to notice it. And then
all hell would break loose.
There was bound to be something especially for leather
furniture, some proprietary cleaner that would wipe off
bright pink marker in a flash. But there was no way Olivia
would be able to buy it this evening, which meant she had
to hide the offending pink bit until she had a chance to go
shopping the next day.
Emily's mother, Carol, arrived mid-scrub, a fresh-faced
woman of forty. Her dark hair was in a pony-tail and she
wore her usual outfit of jeans and a sweatshirt.
Finding Olivia's cleaning equipment spread all over the
sitting-room floor, she immediately realised what had
happened and was contrite when she realised Emily's
penmanship was responsible for desecrating several thousand
pounds' worth of Scandinavian leather.
'Olivia, I do apologise,' she said, hands flying to her
mouth. "I am so sorry. I don't know what to say.'
'Don't worry, Carol,' Olivia replied, as if she wasn't in
the slightest bit concerned.
'But your beautiful couch . . .'
'Sasha's daddy will be very cross,' interrupted Emily,
beginning to cry noisily with the drama of the whole affair.
Snuffling precariously, Sasha nodded her head. 'He will,'
she said, before she too started to cry. 'He'll be very cross
with Mummy and me.'
'Don't be silly, girls,' Olivia said gaily, bending down and
hugging both children to her.
Carol looked curious. 'Will he?' she asked.
'Gosh, no,' Olivia said, hoping she wasn't going to flush
puce with embarrassment. She couldn't bear Carol to
think that Stephen was some sort of tyrant. 'He's totally
easygoing. I'm the one who goes mad about marks on
things,' she lied blithely. 'Stephen's such a pussycat he
can't get angry with Sasha about anything.'
'Sounds just like my George,' the other woman said. 'I
was always trying that "wait until your father gets home"
trick until my lot realised it was complete rubbish. He
doesn't really care if they ruin the place. Men, huh?'
'Yes, George must be just like Stephen,' Olivia said
faintly. Then don't care too much about furniture, do they?'
'You'd probably be as well off to leave that stain and get
a professional in to clean it,' Carol advised. 'I'll pay
whatever it costs as it's Emily's handiwork.' She ruffled her
daughter's hair and Emily bawled louder.
'I wouldn't dream of it,' Olivia said. "I shouldn't have let
them out of the kitchen with those markers, it's my fault.
Don't worry about it.'
When Carol had gone, Olivia hunkered down beside
Sasha. 'Daddy won't be cross,' she said gently. 'I promise.'
Her daughter didn't look too convinced.
'Come on, let's put on a video. How about The Little Mermaid?'
Cheering up, Sasha plonked herself down in front of the
TV with her favourite soft toy, a much-loved grey rabbit
called Muffy. As Sasha became engrossed in Ariel's adventures,
Olivia tidied away her cleaning products with a
heavy heart. Nothing she had was going to remove the
stain, she might as well face facts.
Desperate for a solution, she hit upon the idea of
swopping the two couches around so that Stephen would
be sitting on the undamaged one and she could leave
something, her cardigan perhaps, on the marked one. That
was it.
Three hours later, he arrived home, tired and hungry.
He wasn't in the mood for conversation and read the
paper throughout dinner.
'Is it all right?' Olivia asked, hovering around with the
saucepan containing mashed potato in case he wanted
more.
'Fine,' he said, tight-lipped, and went back to the paper
Olivia, who'd given herself a tiny portion of dinner,
pushed her food around the plate. She didn't want
Stephen to see her eating nothing because he'd be bound
to ask what was wrong.
Yet he appeared too engrossed in the paper to notice
anything. After ten more silent minutes, she quietly
dumped her untouched dinner in the bin. It was a pity
Stephen wouldn't even consider getting the puppy Sasha
longed for: no animal would ever go hungry with all the
food she threw out.
She cleared Stephen's plate and placed a bowl of his
favourite Apple Charlotte in front of him. It disappeared
behind the paper and reappeared five minutes later,
empty.
Olivia stacked the dishwasher and was about to ask
Stephen if he wanted coffee when she realised he'd left the
kitchen. She slammed the dishwasher shut and hurried
after him.
The cardigan she'd draped artfully across the marked
couch arm was still there. Stephen was draped less artfully
across the couch he favoured, the paper in a crumpled
heap on the floor, sports on the television.
'Did you want coffee?' Olivia asked.
'No,' he said brusquely. 'I've drunk about ten cups
already today. I'm rattling with caffeine. Some bloody fool
in the office screwed up the Hong Kong deal and we spent
the whole day sorting it out. Not that it's sorted out yet,'
he snorted. 'I'll be working till all hours tomorrow.'
And that was it. That was the extent of their marital
discussion for the evening. Stephen went back to the
television, restlessly changing channels to see what was on
the other channels.
Olivia picked up the paper he had discarded and sat
down on the other couch, careful not to dislodge the
cardigan. He didn't speak again for another half an hour
and then it was only to ask her to get a bottle of wine.
"I need it,' he said.
After two glasses, he switched the TV off.
'Bed?' he said.
Olivia checked on Sasha before switching on the bathroom
light and going into their bedroom. Stephen had
pulled the duvet back and had taken off his shirt. His bare
chest was muscular and covered with curling dark hairs
that matched the tight curls on his head. His soulful dark
eyes were black with desire.
He pulled her to him, kissing her deeply on the mouth
before moving down to her neck.
'God, you're so beautiful, Olivia,' he murmured, hands
greedily sliding up her jumper to reveal small breasts
encased in the expensive cream silk lace bra he'd bought
her for Christmas. They sank to the bed. He caressed her
urgently, kissing and licking her through the lace before
eagerly unfastening the bra. He didn't wait to take it or the
jumper off- he pushed them out of his way.
His mouth fastened on her nipple and he sucked hungrily.
Olivia always loved it when Stephen did that: she
adored the exquisite sensations it sent searing up and
down her body. Breasts were such erogenous zones, hers
anyhow.
But not tonight, not like this.
She lay on the bed like the doll she felt she resembled, a
lifeless marble creature to be displayed and played with.
Nothing more.
'You're so beautiful, I could look at you for hours,' he
moaned, his voice thick with desire.
He rapidly took off the rest of his clothes and pulled off
Olivia's jumper and bra.
She stood up to slide off her skirt and tights.
'Stand there,' he said, holding her waist as she stood,
semi-naked in front of him.
'I could watch you all night,' he said, eyes hungry for
her. Then he grinned and pulled her down on to the bed
under him. 'But maybe not!'
He slept afterwards, worn out after his energetic
efforts. Olivia lay beside her sleeping husband in their
marital bed and gazed unseeing at the opposite wall.
When his breathing became heavy and deep, she slipped
out of the bed and peered into Sasha's room. One fat
little thumb in her mouth, the child lay asleep, eyelids
flickering as she sailed through the world of dreams
where daddies never got cross and mummies never got
depressed. Olivia wished she could join her daughter in
dreamland.

CHAPTER SIX

The doorbell rang loudly. Cara, slumped in front of the
telly on the only armchair with springs worth talking
about, refused to move.
'It'll be for you, Phoebs.' she roared in the direction of
the bathroom where her flatmate was frantically doing
things with body lotion and mascara in honour of the
gorgeous Bureau Dc Change man coming on his first visit
to Chateau Chaos.
'Please answer the door, Cara,' hissed Phoebe, opening
the door a fraction to let steamy, Eternity-scented air filter
out in an overpowering blast. 'I'm still in my knickers.'
'He'd love that,' grumbled Cara, as she levered herself
out of the chair. She'd spent all of Eastenders adjusting
their only cushion into the correct position so that the
weird bump on the chair didn't stick painfully into her
back. She'd never re-position it properly in time for the
big film.
She padded across the floor in her socks and wiped
away a droplet of conditioner which had escaped from
the do-it-yourself hair conditioning treatment that consisted
of plenty of hot oil and a load of clingfilm wrapped
around your head for an hour. It made her look like an
extra from a very old episode of Star Trek but Phoebe
swore by it.
Cara opened the door and swore. 'Shit!' she said. The
athletic Adonis standing outside clutching a six-pack, a
tattered woollen scarf and a plastic bag, blinked long dark
eyelashes at her and shook some snow from his silky
dark hair.
'I meant . . . er, shit, I didn't hear the doorbell ring,' Cara
gasped inanely, hand going instantly to her Star Trek hair-do. 'Er - . . did you ring often?'
'Only once,' said Adonis, looking bemused. 'You're Cara,
right?'
She nodded, still staring at the chiselled face and the
full, sensuous lips chapped endearingly by the cold.
'I'm Ricky.'
He looked like he'd just stepped off the pitch of an
international soccer match. He was at the peak of his
physical condition, all healthy skin, shining eyes and rippling,
freshly washed hair. Faded jeans, so tight they
threatened to cut off the blood supply to his legs, were
moulded to footballer's thighs. He wore a small gold cross
on a chain around his neck and under his dark woollen
jacket was a loose white shirt with plenty of buttons
undone despite the arctic weather outside.
Cara knew her mouth was open but she couldn't help it.
Boy Phoebe, were you ever right? she said silently. He was
gorgeous. Abso-bloody-lutely gorgeous.
She forced her jaw shut. 'Come in.'
He moved into the tiny hall and took off his coat. As
Cara lingered to shut the door, she found herself eyeing his
bum in the spray-on jeans. It was just as perfect as the rest
of him; taut and set off by lean hips. Woof"!
'Go on in,' she said, pointing the way through to the
sitting room as if it was a palatial drawing room instead of
a terminally messy kitchen-cum-sitting room with a moth
eaten fake suede sofa, two shabby green armchairs and a collection of magazines and papers dumped on the glass
topped table in the centre of the room. Cara was too
distracted at the thought of being caught with clingfilm on
her head to care about the state of the flat.
'I brought beer,' Ricky said, turning round and giving her
the sort of heart-stopping smile that made her fervently
wish she wasn't in her oldest, grubbiest jeans and the
sweatshirt she'd worn on the bus home from Ballymoreen
that morning.
'I'll put it in the fridge,' she said, 'although it's so cold in
here we don't really need to,' she added, with a little giggle.
Cara, you plonker, she told herself disgustedly as she
stuffed the beer into the fridge along with the remains of
their Christmas consignment of booze. You actually giggled. All it takes is one handsome man to walk into the room
and you're giggling like some dozy sun-bedded blonde
with zero qualifications apart from a degree in men. Ugh!
'Will I light the fire?' Ricky offered.
And he was useful too. Cara would have swooned if she
knew how.
'Sure. That'd be great. It's hard to get those briquettes
going. I think they're a dodgy batch.'
'No problem,' he replied, attention turned to the fireplace.
'I'll
tell Phoebe you're here.'
Cara tried to exit the room as gracefully as you could
with a headful of conditioner encased in clingfilm. She
shoved open the bathroom door and was enveloped in a
cloud of steam.
'You never told me he was that gorgeous,' she hissed at
Phoebe as they immediately banged into each other in the
six foot by five foot space.
'I did too,' Phoebe said slowly, her attention on getting
her tights straight.
'Does he have any brothers?' Cara demanded, rubbing a
bit of steamed-up mirror to see precisely how hideous she
looked.
'No. But he has lots of friends.'
'If they all look like him, I'm coming with you on your
next date. Lucky cow!' she added.
Phoebe smiled radiantly. She'd spent ages blowdrying
her hair until it was a mass of non-frizzy curls that fell
flatteringly around her face disguising her round milkmaid's
cheeks. Wearing a short lacy skirt, shiny black tights
and a tight little floral top, none of which was suitable for
an evening in a flat with no central heating, she looked
brilliant.
Cara told her so.
'Do you think so?' Phoebe asked, twiddling with her bra
strap to hoist up her boobs, eyes glued critically to the
mirror.
'Fabulous. He'll be in paroxysms of lust as soon as he
sees you. Maybe I should go out for the evening and give
you two the chance to have fun on your own?'
'No,' Phoebe said firmly. 'We're all watching Gone With
The Wind. I told him we were having an evening in. He's
broke too, so we've no money to go out.'
'I'll wash the gunk from my hair,' Cara said, hanging her
head over the bath and reaching for the shower attachment.
Scarlett
had married poor Charles Hamilton and was
living it up in Atlanta purely to spite Ashley Wilkes by the
time Cara returned to the sitting room. Her hair was
half-dry, she'd changed into a clean sweatshirt and had
borrowed some of Phoebe's LouLou perfume. She didn't
know why she'd bothered to make herself look more
presentable. Ricky was Phoebe's boyfriend after all, and
Cara would have rather run around Leinster Square naked in the snow than steal her flatmate's man, but when he'd
turned up and found her looking as if she'd just been
bathing in turkey fat after spending the day working as a
brickie, Cara had felt mortified. She didn't want this
handsome bloke to think she was a slovenly slapper who
thought washing powder was rationed.
Especially since Phoebe had made such an effort and
looked ten times dressier than she usually did when she
wasn't stuck behind the bank counter doling out crisp
tenners. Phoebe's weekend uniform was jeans and a sweatshirt,
just like Cara's. For slobbing around watching TV, the
pair of them generally wore their ragged towelling dressing
gowns and looked like they'd stepped off the set of a sit-com about people in hospital.
Cara grabbed a bottle of Beck's from the fridge and slid
into her seat again. The furry leopardskin cushion was gone
and now supported Ricky's dark head, which was angled
very closely beside Phoebe's fair one. One of his long
fingered hands lay snugly on her glossy knee, fingers curved
inwards under the hem of her flirty little skirt.
Cara would have bet a week's wages that it wouldn't be
long before the fingers and the hand were moving stealthily
upwards. She felt an unaccustomed stab of envy at the
thought.
He turned to look at her as she settled herself into the
chair.
'What's happening?' she asked brightly, as if she hadn't
seen Gone With The Wind at least fifteen times already. It
was Evie's favourite film and when Cara had been young,
it had been as much a part of Christmas as crackers and a
tinsel-encrusted tree that the dogs had knocked into ten
times a day.
'Nothing much,' Ricky said in bored tones.
Cara looked at him sharply. What did he mean: nothing
much? He was talking about a wonderful movie, certainly
one of her favourites.
She took a swig of beer and tried to concentrate but only
a few minutes had gone by before Ricky's hand began its
careful ascent up Phoebe's leg and under her skirt. Cara
tried not to look.
Phoebe giggled softly and Ricky whispered something in
her ear. She giggled again, huskier this time, and moved
sideways so he could wrap his other arm around her.
Cara shifted uncomfortably on her chair so she could
barely see them and wished she wasn't there. For another
ten minutes she tried to block out what was happening
in the room and concentrate on Scarlett but it was
impossible.
'Another beer, anyone?' she asked, launching herself out
of her chair energetically and trying not to look in their
direction.
'No,' said Phoebe in a muffled voice.
Cara shuffled off to the fridge, feeling as in the way as a
male stripper at a lesbian coffee morning. She was hungry
again and the fridge was, predictably enough, empty.
About to extract another beer, she suddenly changed her
mind. She'd phone Zoe. Perhaps they could go for a drink
or even out for something to eat. Anything to get away
from the misery of watching young love in action when
she was so undeniably a spinster.
It wasn't that she begrudged Phoebe the gorgeous Ricky:
not at all. Lord knows, Phoebe deserved a decent bloke
after the miserable years it had taken her to get over her
childhood sweetheart's dumping her and marrying someone
else. No, Cara wished nothing but the best for her
friend.
It was just that the pair of them usually lurched from
crisis to crisis together, manless - apart from the selection
of losers Phoebe routinely ended up going out with for one
drink - and happy. With Phoebs in boyfriend bliss, they
were no longer the Two Musketeers. They were One
Normal Woman, Now Part Of A Couple, and her Oddball
Flatmate who never had lovers, apart from the unmentionable
drunken liaisons with office motorbike couriers. Wallowing
in self-pity, Cara decided to treat herself to the last
Mars Bar ice cream in the ice box. She deserved it. That,
and some serious whingeing with Zoe would cheer her up.
Zoe arrived in Slattery's half an hour later looking
marginally more depressed than Cara. Her cropped red
hair was flattened to her skull with rain that had seeped
through her crochet hat, and her nose was like a bulbous
crimson lump on her face, thanks to a streaming head cold.
'Heddo,' she said in bunged-up tones. 'I've gob a cold.'
'You poor thing,' said Cara pityingly, putting an arm
around her friend's skinny little frame. 'Hot whiskey will
cure you.'
Being a statuesque five foot eleven, it was no bother to
Cara to push through the crowded pub like a snow plough
with Zoe in her wake until they found a couple vacating a
table and two stools.
Diving past a slow-moving guy in an anorak who also
had his eye on the vacant table, Cara grabbed both stools
and sank on to one, giving Anorak Man a hard stare, her
gypsyish face haughty. He looked as if he was about to
complain until he realised Cara was at least four inches
taller than him and fierce-looking, so stalked off, grumbling.
There were times when it was useful to be an
Amazon, she thought, flicking back her long black hair and
giving Zoe a mischievous grin that made her high cheekbones
look more Apache princess than ever.
After one hot whiskey, Zoe's nose was de-bunged
enough for her to talk intelligibly.
'My brothers and I went into Tralee on Stephen's Night
and on the way back, Damien's car broke down. We had to
walk the last mile home and it was lashing,' she said,
cradling the hot glass in her hands. 'We all got soaked. You
know me, I just have to look at rain and I've got the 'flu.
This cold just won't go away.'
'I'm so sorry,' Cara said, immediately contrite. 'I
shouldn't have asked you out tonight. It's pelting down
outside.'
'I'd rather be out than sitting at home watching
Christopher and his latest boyfriend drooling all over
each other,' grumbled Zoe, who lived in a tiny rented
town house with an outrageously camp fashion stylist
named Christopher. 'They insisted on watching Funny
Girl and wouldn't let me watch EastEnders. Then they
spent the entire film whispering sweet nothings in each
other's ears and discussing whether they preferred Yentl or What's Up, Doc? in between screaming about how
"gorgeous" Barbra is. I thought I'd hit Christopher.'
'Join the club,' Cara said. 'Phoebe has finally got Mr
Bureau De Change to visit and they're so welded together,
you wouldn't fit a ten-pence piece between the two of
them. They were probably re-enacting a slushy movie on
top of the kitchen counters five seconds after I slammed
the front door. True love can be very depressing,' she said
in maudlin tones.
'Bugger true love!' exclaimed Zoe. 'It's true lust I'm
talking about. I haven't had a man fiddling around with my
underwear since I was at the doctor's for that cervical
smear last September. I need a man,' she rasped in her best
Marlene Dietrich voice.
Several men swivelled around on their bar stools with
grins on their faces, eyeing up the tall dark girl and the
small redhead huddled in a voluminous cardigan.
'She doesn't mean immediately,' Cara informed the
eager onlookers acidly. 'We mean for stud purposes, much
later, so we don't have to talk to you.'
'Lezzers,' hissed one discomfited bloke. 'Don't fancy
either of ya, anyway!'
They ignored him.
'Ewan at work is very attractive,' Zoe said idly, picking
cloves out of her glass, 'and he likes you.'
'But I've practically never even spoken to him,' Cara
protested.
'Maybe that's why,' Zoe added wickedly. 'Seriously, he's
a decent bloke. He gave me a lift home one night when we
were both leaving the office late. He drives an MG.'
'So he's decent boyfriend material because he has a car,
is that it?' demanded Cara tetchily. 'It's immaterial
whether he's an axe murderer or not because he has
wheels?'
'He's nice and just happens to have a car. That's not why
he's nice, but it helps. You're narky tonight, Cara.'
'Sorry' She stared into her empty glass glumly. 'I feel a
bit depressed, that's all. Seeing Phoebe with Ricky made
me feel like some decrepit maiden aunt destined to a life
of celibacy and never having anyone to spend time with.'
'I keep coming up with possible men and you keep
dismissing them!' Zoe said irritably.
'I know . . . Do you want another hot whiskey?'
'Don't change the subject. You've got to give men a
chance,' Zoe argued.
'You know why I don't,' Cara muttered, wishing this
conversation would end.
'You should have got over that years ago. I doubt if he's
spent the rest of his life brooding over you.'
Cara stared at her friend angrily, eyes blazing.
'That's different!' she said hotly.
'No,
it's not. If you never let another man near you
again, then he's won and you always vowed you'd never let
him win.'
They sat in silence for a moment, Zoe's words hanging
in the air like giant icicles.
'I suppose you want another drink?' Cara said finally.
The tension evaporated and Zoe relaxed on her stool.
'I'd love one. Rut only one. We don't want to be late for
our first day back at work,' she said, mimicking Bernard
Redmond's booming tones. 'I'll hate going back tomorrow,'
she added with a grimace. 'Do you think Bernard will have
any New Year's resolutions planned that'll turn him into
something approaching a human being?'
Cara snorted. The only resolutions he'll have are to cut
the tea break bill by rationing tea bags and to switch the
heating down a few degrees to save money on gas.'
They chatted for another hour before they left for home,
Zoe turning up towards Rathgar Road where she lived
with Christopher, Cara turning down towards Leinster
Road.
When she turned the key in the door, the flat was lit up
like a Christmas tree with every light and lamp burning
brightly and a comedy show blaring from the TV. Phoebe
was nowhere to be seen but the moans coming from her
bedroom told Cara where she was. Ricky was apparently
staying the night, although sleep obviously wasn't on the
agenda.
She went around switching off lights, put the lock on
the front door and went into her room. It was just as
much of a mess as it had been before she left for
Christmas: clothes strewn everywhere, books in leaning
Tower of Pisa piles on the floor and boots and shoes
scattered around near the dust-ridden dressing table.
Ignoring the mess, she went into the bathroom for her
night-time ablutions. She still couldn't shake Zoe's words from her head: 'You should have got over that years ago. I
doubt if he's spent the rest of his life brooding over you . . . If
you never let another man near you, then he's won and you
always vowed you'd never let him win.'
As she brushed her teeth, Cara looked at the tired face
in the mirror and remembered what she'd looked like six
and a half years ago. Then, her black curly hair had been
cut in a shaggy style, soft curls feathered against cheekbones
that weren't as pronounced thanks to the puppy fat
that remained even though she was on the verge of making
the jump from teenager to twenty year old.
She'd emphasised her hazel eyes with eyeshadow and
always wore rich ruby lipstick. It was very different from
now when the most make-up she wore was mascara and
colourless Body Shop lip balm. Her clothes had been
different too: after years of drab convent school greys and
the hideous A-line pinafore all St Agatha's girls were
forced into, Cara had embraced the world of mufti with
delight. Living away from home for the first time, even if
she was living in Dublin with Evie and therefore under her
watchful, ultra-protective eye, Cara felt grown up, confident
and ready for anything. A convert to mini-skirts, she
never covered up her long legs and the sight of Cara Fraser
striding across the courtyard in black opaque tights and an
excuse for a skirt brightened many a dull morning for the
male students of Slaney Art College.
And not just the students, Cara thought, her eyes
blank. Maybe if she hadn't gone so mad wearing youthfully
exuberant clothes, it never would have happened.
Those skimpy T-shirts she loved to wear under her
regulation black man's cardigan just drew attention to
her, and as for the black John Richmond knee-high suede
boots with the buckles - fatal. She'd bought them in a
second-hand shop in Temple Bar for fun but they looked like the sort of things a serious dominatrix would don for a night of pain. The nineteen-year-old Cara hadn't minded the attention she got when wearing them. She'd loved her new found skill at flirting, loved discovering she was a natural at it.
Having anyone who wanted to flirt with her in the first place was a novelty. Nobody had ever chatted her up
before. The boys in Ballymoreen had known her in all her chunky, tomboyish glory and had considered her one of
them, an honorary lad. But the guys in Slaney were a ripe crop ready to be picked by the mature reinvented Cara.
Her old friends, used to the tough girl who could play football with as much skill as any of them, wouldn't have recognised her during those first few months in college. The boots were part of her new sexy and independent image. Although you wouldn't think mere boots would drive so many men so wild. She'd thrown them out since, mainly because she'd been wearing them the day it started.
Cara sometimes forgot what she'd done the week before and she could never remember important dates like when she'd had her period or what date the electricity company insisted on being paid by. But the events of that freezing October morning were imprinted in her brain on indelible tissue. She'd never forget it. Never.
She'd missed the first bus from the end of Evie's road and then, when she got on the next one, an accident on the dual carriageway meant the bus was stationary for at least fifteen minutes. By the time Cara flew through the doors of Slaney College, en route for Mr Theal's History of Art class, she was half an hour late.
"I apologise,' she gasped, trying to creep into the lecture hall where the other thirty people in her year sat quietly taking notes. "I missed my bus. I'm really sorry.'
Mr Theal - sorry, not Mr Theal: 'Call me Owen, class, you're in college now, not school' - had looked at her slowly, a calculating gaze at odds with the avuncular impression he'd tried to create during the previous classes where he'd brought them all to the pub for a drink on him.
With his sleekly brushed back dark hair and deep-set dark eyes, the other girls in her class said he was gorgeous. 'A ride,' according to one admirer. He dressed much better than most of the other lecturers. That day he was wearing a fashionable suit over a collarless shirt. He was sitting comfortably on a low chair, facing the class instead of looking at the slide show on the wall behind him, giving the impression that he knew the painting he was talking about backwards and didn't need so much as to look at it. Then he smiled at her, a warm smile as if they were the only two people in the room; as if they were close, dear friends instead of a teacher and a tardy pupil.
'You'll have to stay back to see what you've missed and how you can catch up,' he said easily.
'Of course.' panted Cara as she made her way to her seat, breathless after her sprint from the bus stop and delighted to be in so little trouble for her lateness. Staying after class was nothing. In St Agatha's, being late would result in a ten-minute lecture from the teacher and probably
a four-page essay on whatever topic was being discussed as punishment. In the small convent school, punctuality was only one step behind cleanliness in being next to Godliness.
Relieved, and in her naivety never once questioning why a college lecturer would care less about a first-year student missing the initial ten minutes of a lecture, Cara got out her pad and began to take notes.
She loved the History of Art classes. Much more detailed than her secondary school curriculum, the programme in
Slaney College's foundation art course was incredibly varied
and all-encompassing- Mr Theal's class on. eighteenth
century French painters soon had her enthralled. Told in his
rich baritone, Theal's stories about Jacques-Louis David
came vividly to life and he imbued the paintings he showed
on the slides with more life and vigour than ever Sister
Concepta had been able to.
The lecture was over before Cara knew it and as she
stuffed her A-4 pad into her bag, thinking of her next
lecture, she almost forgot she'd been late and had to stay
behind. Owen Theal hadn't forgotten.
'Cara,' he said as she passed, his voice silky. 'We need to
talk.'
'Yes we do,' she said, flustered at how rude she must
have seemed. 'I forgot.'
'We've got the Professor in five minutes,' warned one of
the male students as he walked out of the room.
'It's all rush, rush, rush,' Owen Theal said, leaning back against his desk and folding his arms across his chest. He
was the picture of relaxation, the king in his castle. 'Go to
the Professor's lecture, Cara,' he said, his voice amused. 'He hates people being late.'
She coloured.
'But I do want to have a few minutes with you later
today. You're one of the most promising students we've got
on the course this year and I don't want to see you drop
out for any reason. I'd like to help you and to encourage
your talent. Can I do that, Cara?'
He gave her an intense look from those dark eyes.
Tortured artist's eyes, she thought irrationally, like a martyr
in an El Greco painting.
'Come to my office this evening," Owen said firmly. 'At
half-four.'
Talented, huh? His flattering words buzzing around her head like a swarm of summer midges, she hurried along
the corridor with a swing in her step. One of the most promising students on the course and I don't want to see you
drop out for any reason . . .
She'd always adored art; now this important lecturer was
telling her she was talented after all, that she had the skill
to make it in the art world"! She couldn't wait to tell F.vie.
It was dizzying, thrilling, especially after that horrible year
suffering through the secretarial course she'd loathed. She
felt vindicated at last. Her sister had gently nudged her
into the small-town secretarial course: 'just so you have
something to fall back on'.
In other words: 'in case you make a dreadful artist and
can't afford the rent, you can always type'.
Cara had hated it and had longed for the year to pass so
she could apply for art college in Dublin. Now she'd barely
settled into Slaney when her talent had been recognised.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, she sang to herself all
morning.
The day passed in a haze. At four, her new' friend Zoe
suggested a trip to Nassau Street for coffee and a meander
about the bookshops.
'Can't,' Cara said apologetically, 'I'm meeting someone.'
She didn't know why she'd covered up her meeting
with Owen Theal. After all, it was perfectly legitimate
and to do with college work, but she felt it would have
been bragging to say she was meeting a lecturer because
he thought she was talented and wanted to give her
special attention.
It'd be awkward to say it, it'd probably make Zoe feel
left out and not-so-talented. So she kept quiet and lived to
regret it.
It was a long time later that Cara discovered he tried it
on with all of them, all the female students who'd listen,
including Zoe. Only Cara had been stupid and naive
enough to let him get away with it.
'Naive,' suggested Zoe kindly later on.
'Stupid,' Cara said bitterly.
He'd taken Zoe to the pub and tried to ply her with
Scotch, telling her she was talented and very beautiful into
the bargain. Streetwise and with a strong head for whiskey
thanks to the illegal Irish poteen her father always kept a
supply of" she'd downed her first drink in a practised
motion and told Owen Theal if he ever laid a hand on her
again, he'd live to regret it.
'He's not a lecturer, he's a lecherer,' Zoe said harshly,
much later. 'Scum of the earth.'
Blissfully unaware of all this, Cara went to the loo at a
quarter past four and fluffed up her hair until it framed her
face in a flattering dark cloud. She gave herself a blast of
deodorant for fear of smelling sweaty after her early
morning dash through the traffic and put on some lipstick
before wiping it off hastily. You're going to be talking
about college work, for God's sake, she told herself. Let
him sec how seriously you take your art - he's probably
sick to the teeth of flirty students who bat their eyelashes
at him and conveniently forget what they're there for.
At half-four exactly, she knocked on Owen Theal's
office door and he opened it immediately, his coat in his
hand.
Cara faltered. 'Sorry, did I come at the wrong time? Are
you going out?'
Theal smiled, with a glint in his dark eyes. 'No, we're going out. It's a bitterly cold day and a drink will warm us
up. Besides, it's nice to get out of this place occasionally.'
They walked companionably along the road with Theal
explaining that he loved Dublin's Georgian architecture
but his favourite city, architecturally speaking, was Paris.
He'd travelled all over the world and by the time they
were ensconced in the tiny Dawson Lounge, he'd told Cara
about his year in France and the subsequent two years
when he explored Europe, journeyed to India, and even
spent some time on a New Zealand vineyard.
'You've been everywhere,' she said, eyes shining with
admiration. 'I've only been on a plane once!'
'You'll travel, don't worry,' he reassured her. 'What's
your poison?'
'Er . . . coffee?' Cara said.
Theal brushed that idea aside. 'Nonsense. You'll have a
real drink. Do you like Scotch?' He didn't wait for her to
answer but ordered two Scotches with ice.
Not used to drinking anything stronger than wine or
beer, Cara found the whisky burned the back of her throat
but, not wishing to seem ungrateful or rude, she drank it
anyway.
Owen was so easy to talk to. And so interested in her. He
really wanted to know all about her: what she liked, what
she didn't like. Where she lived, who she lived with, why
she'd decided to go to art college . . . Warmed by the
alcohol and his interest, Cara found herself talking nineteen
to the dozen about how she'd adored paintings when
she was younger and how she'd bury herself in library
books about the Prado in Madrid until she felt as if she'd
really seen all the Goyas and Velasquez.
She didn't notice Owen silently ordering another drink
and sliding her empty glass away to replace it with a
double. He was drinking very quickly. Ridiculously, she felt
she had to keep up, like eating your soup at the same speed
as everyone else so you won't keep them waiting for the
next course.
'We recognise each other, we artists,' he said solemnly,
running one finger around the rim of his now-empty glass.
'I think that's why I brought you here to talk to you - I
know you're different, you're like me. You're an artist.'
'D-do you think so?' Cara stammered.
'Of course.' He smiled broadly. 'I can spot it a mile off.
It's in your hands.' He picked up her right hand and held it
carefully in both of his, his fingers warm and sensitive as
they examined hers and caressed her palm.
Cara said nothing. She didn't know what to say. This was
all very strange.
'You must let me help you, Cara,' he said earnestly.
'Well, er . . . yes,' she replied.
As abruptly as he'd started, Owen dropped her hand and
began talking about college and the syllabus. Cara, who'd
been getting nervous what with all the hand holding stuff,
relaxed again. He was simply being friendly. He was artistic
and didn't operate by normal rules. No other teacher
would hold your hand like that: Owen was different, that
was all. He got them another drink.
'Please, let me pay,' said Cara, embarrassed, hating him
to think she was mean even though her bank account boasted only fifty pounds that had to do her for the next
two months.
'Don't be ridiculous. You're an impoverished student, I'll
pay,' Owen said fondly.
After their fourth drink, things began to feel a bit hazy.
Cara felt her insides lurch from the combination of alcohol
and no food. Her face was flushed and she knew she wasn't
making too much sense. But Owen Theal didn't seem to
mind. He appeared to love listening to her. He sat beside
her - not touching her - listening raptly. It was nice, she
thought dreamily, nice to he listened to so intently.
She didn't want the fifth, and very large-looking, drink
but he insisted.
'We're celebrating,' he said smoothly, pushing the glass
into her hands. 'You'd be insulting me if you said no.'
'I don't want to do that,' Cara said, flustered. She didn't
know you could insult someone by not having a drink. She
knew nothing, really.
She drank it slowly, wishing she'd said no. As if he sensed
her discomfort, Owen became even more entertaining
than before. He told her outrageous stories about famous
artists, amused her with risque tales of Slaney College's
teaching staff, and generally made her feel like a fascinating
and mature woman. With the warm whisky inside her and
the warmth of his attention outside, Cara basked in a haze
hotter than a sweltering summer's day.
It was around seven when they finally left the tiny
crowded pub but instead of turning down towards the
college, Owen led her firmly up the street, guiding her
with one strong hand on her elbow.
'We've got to eat,' he said in surprised tones when Cara
began to protest.
Thinking of Evie waiting patiently at home with dinner
in the oven, Cara knew she should phone or something.
But he didn't give her a chance. He rushed her towards
Merrion Row and she felt almost embarrassed to explain
that she went home after college almost every night
instead of partying with the wilder students.
In The Sitar, a fragrant Indian restaurant, he ordered red
wine and filled her glass up almost before she could say
anything.
As he ate his lamb korma, Cara toyed with her
Tandoori chicken, aware that the room seemed to he
moving in and out of focus. She finally understood that
old joke about not being drunk if you could lie on the
floor without holding on. At the moment, she felt as if
she'd fall off her chair any second. And she was nauseous
into the bargain.
She just wanted to go home, to sink into her cosy little
bed in Evie's back bedroom and feel the soft sheets wrap
themselves around her. She longed for sleep but how could
she get out of this?
'I'm tired, Owen,' she slurred suddenly. 'I've got to go
home'
He promised to drive her and they went back to the
college. 'Come into my room, I've got to get my keys,' he
said.
Like the obedient girl she was, programmed through
years of training to do exactly what a person in authority
said, she went, her limbs unsteady as she climbed the stairs
to his office.
Inside, he turned and grabbed her, pushing her up
against the filing cabinet and winching her big coat from
her shoulders.
Cara would have gasped but his mouth was fastened on
hers, his lips wet and rubbery as they took over hers,
slobbering on her face, smelling of wine and whisky.
'I knew you liked me too,' he murmured between
driving his tongue into her mouth. 'I know you've been
watching me all evening but I had to be sure you wanted it
too. You're so sexy, Cara. Mature, grown up and sexy.'
It was the words that did it. He believed she wanted him
too, believed she'd been giving him the come on all
evening. When she'd laughed at his jokes and taken the
drinks he'd bought her, he'd assumed she fancied him too.
It was like a mating dance and she'd danced it, too stupid
to know the difference, too full of her new-found sexuality
to know what she was doing.
Cara felt so out of her depth, but if he believed she
knew what she was doing, how could she say she'd never dreamed of him touching her like this, that she didn't like
it? She'd obviously led him on. It was her fault this had happened. How could she stop it? So she said nothing, just
let him kiss her roughly for a few minutes. Then something
inside her snapped and she knew she had to stop him, had
to get him off her. Now.
'No,' she breathed, her voice faint. 'No,' she said again,
more strongly this time.
He kept going, shoving her jumper up around her ribs,
big hands wrenching it up over her breasts.
'No!'
'Don't be such a little tease,' he said raggedly. 'You want
it, you know you do.'
'I don't,' she sobbed, trying to push him away from her.
'I don't want this. Please.'
He wasn't listening. He'd dragged her skirt up around
her waist and was fumbling with her tights. God, he wasn't
going to stop! She pushed him away but he didn't budge.
Cara was strong but Owen Theal was bigger, much, much
stronger, and able to handle alcohol. He wasn't drunk and
unsteady. He was utterly in control. His hands were
everywhere, touching and groping. Touching her intimately,
grabbing parts of her no man had ever touched
before. As he grabbed her, she felt sick, truly sick.
Then it came to her. The answer, the way out.
'I'm going to be sick,' she gasped, then made a retching
noise, like one of her father's dogs trying to vomit after
eating grass.
As if he'd been scalded, Theal sprang back.
'A bag, a bucket, get me something to be sick into,' she
said between retches. She clasped her hands to her mouth
as if she was ready to vomit and he whirled around
frantically looking for something.
'Don't be sick here,' he hissed. 'I'll get something . . .'
He dragged open the door and Cara could see him rush
down the hall towards the staff room. This was the chance
she needed. There was no time to sob or sink on to the
floor crying. Grabbing her coat and bags, she stumbled
from the room, pulling down her skirt as she ran. Her coat
was trailing on the ground behind her as she ran with one
arm in and one arm out, but she didn't care. She simply
had to get away.
Her blood was racing in her chest, pumping frantically in
terror She nearly fell on the landing, tripped on the broken
tile she blithely walked past twenty times a day.
But she recovered her balance and it didn't stop her
headlong flight. She tore past the classrooms, terrified he'd
find her gone and run, shouting, after her. But he didn't.
She ran past the locker room and pulled open the heavy
door and was out in the street in moments. Out in the
blessedly safe street.
Cara ran all the way to the bus terminus, her heart still
pounding and her breath rattling inside her chest. She ran
like someone possessed, as if all the demons of every
horror movie she'd ever seen were after her.
Mercifully, a bus sat waiting, lights on, engine idling
while the driver waited another five minutes so he could
leave at exactly eleven o'clock. Cara climbed the step to
the driver and looked at him as if he'd personally saved her
from Owen Theal.
'You're in a hurry,' he said, taking in the hot, flushed
face and her ragged breathing.
'Yes.' She smiled shakily and showed him her travel
card, then went to the back of the bus and sank gratefully
into an empty seat. Eyes wide, she stared around at the
darkened street outside, expecting to see him come after
her any second. He knew where she lived, what bus she
got. She'd told him. He'd follow her, she was sure. Please,
please don't let him follow me, she prayed fervently, too
scared to close her eyes. If she did, he'd appear in front of her like a demon, so she kept watching frantically. Ten
endless minutes passed, ten minutes when Cara felt as if
she'd have a heart attack from fear.
Her heart didn't stop pounding until the driver closed
the doors and the bus pulled away from the kerb. Now she
felt totally safe. Owen wouldn't find her now, he couldn't.
She sat back and stared blankly out into the night, too
shocked to cry. What had she done? Oh, God, what had
she done?
Evie had been in bed when she arrived back, reeking of
unfamiliar Scotch and freezing because somewhere along
the way, she'd lost the crimson chenille scarf and matching
hat her sister had given her as a present. Not somewhere,
really. In his office. On the floor where he'd thrown them.
She'd been too scared to remember them when she raced
out of the door with sheer terror in her soul.
'What time do you call this to be coming in?' demanded
her sister, face icy with disapproval. 'It's nearly twelve and
you're . . .' She paused and sniffed the air disbelievingly
'Drunks I've been worried sick about you.'
Standing at the door, gazing into the room that was so
Evie - all warm floral fabrics and soft cushions, the pine
furniture dotted with lace mats, the tiny china elephants
Evie loved to collect and family pictures everywhere Cara
felt suddenly tearful. She longed to throw herself on
to the bed, have Evie stroke her hair the way she had years
ago, and tell her everything. About Owen and what he'd
said, about how he'd made her feel: trapped, scared and
totally vulnerable. About how terrifying it had been when
he'd started to drag her clothes off and how he hadn't
listened to her crying 'no'.
But Cara couldn't say the words. Lost in shock and the
terrifying newness of the situation, she was silent.
It was like swimming out of her depth, desperately
treading water and trying to grab a foothold but the
bottom was so far away she couldn't roach it. Even talking about what had happened was beyond her.
'I hope you don't think you're going to wander in here
every night smelling like a brewery,' said Evie crossly, tired
after an evening that had included helping a fractious
eleven-year-old Rosie with her sums and trying to fit in
some envelope-stuffing overtime in between finishing off
the ironing. 'It's not on, you know, Cara. I expect you to
behave like an adult not some wild student type. Dad
expects me to look after you but I'm not going to if you're
going to start drinking heavily.'
Cara stood silently, like a deer startled by a lorry's
headlights, every nerve in her body poised to throw herself
into Evie's arms and be comforted. She wanted to say that
she'd hated the taste of the Scotch, had hated the way it
burned her throat, and had hated the way it had tasted on
Owen's breath when he'd forced his mouth against hers,
stubble grinding into her skin like a cheese grater. But she
couldn't think about that now.
'I'm going to bed, Evie,' was all she said. 'Sorry I'm late.'
She'd never told her sister about Owen Theal. She'd
wanted to but the guilt had stopped her. It was all her own
fault, she knew. Her fault for not knowing better. Zoe had
known better, but Cara had stupidly been so convinced she
was this clever, mature woman that she'd blundered into a
scary part of the grown-up world and there was nobody
else to blame for it but herself
She couldn't bear to have her sister blame her; she
wanted Evie to comfort her. She wanted Evie to know
instinctively that something had happened. Which was
madness. Evie never knew and, irrationally, Cara had not
been able to forgive her sister, her surrogate mother, for
not knowing. She'd never quite got over it and she never
forgot. Owen Theal haunted her as if he slept in her bed
every night as she went over it endlessly in her mind.
She wondered what would have happened if she'd
handled it differently. If she'd thrown his Scotch all over
him and told him he could shove his 'you're so talented'
speech where the sun didn't shine. It way a bit like wanting
to turn back time after witnessing some awful accident.
Standing numbly by the road and thinking if only the van
driver had been looking properly, he'd have seen the cyclist
coming towards him. And if only the cyclist hadn't
swerved to avoid that pothole, he wouldn't be lying on the
road in a crumpled heap, limbs at odd angles . . .
If only. She thought that all the time. A mixture of if
only and why the bloody hell was she such a moron as to
fall for his patter, why hadn't she given in to her instinct
and run, why had she let him get away with it? Zoe had
faced exactly the same scenario and she'd come through it
with flying colours. Caustic as ever, she'd told Theal what
she'd do to him if he ever laid a hand on her again.
And she'd even told him he'd better not think about
messing around with her grades as punishment. 'I've
always got straight As in History of Art before,' she'd
hissed. 'I don't want to find myself getting Ds because you
want your revenge, understand?'
A week afterwards, Zoe had asked Cara what was
wrong.
'You're totally different, you never wear your red lipstick
anymore. What's the beef?' she demanded.
Eventually, she'd wangled the story out of her and it was
only because Cara had begged her not to that she didn't
run to the college head's office immediately.
That bastard deserves to lose his job and end up in the
nick,' she'd howled. 'Please let me tell, Cara? He'll only do
it to some other poor kid if you don't.'
Terrified of having to explain what happened, she
refused.
The upshot was that they'd become best friends. They'd
laughed together, shopped together, got drunk together
and gone on holiday together, although they'd never shared
a flat because they both knew that Cara's messy style of
living would have driven the precise and very tidy Zoe
stone mad. She was the only person who knew why Cara
was a disaster area when it came to men. Phoebe knew
something had happened in her flatmate's dark past but
she didn't know exactly what. Which was why she never
nagged her to get a date, and why Zoe did.
Her teeth brushed, Cara flicked off the bathroom light
and went back into her room. She pulled off her clothes,
slipped on a fresh T-shirt and climbed into bed. Zoe was
probably right - she ought to stop ending up in bed with
people like Eric and concentrate on having a real relationship.
It wasn't that easy, though.
To have a relationship, you had to let the other person
into your heart and Cara was wary of such closeness.
Closeness meant you got hurt; closeness meant letting
down your defences and letting people see the tender skin
under the carapace. After years of building up the sort of
defences that a tank would be proud of) Cara was nervous
of letting them down.

CHAPTER SEVEN

'Bugger! I've lost my glasses again. I must have left them in
that monstrosity of a shop without the lift. You'll have to
find them for me,' said the imperious voice. Then, 'No,
wait, maybe they're in here.'
Sybil de Were hauled her ancient brown leather handbag
up by the strap from the floor of Bewley's Oriental
Tearooms and started rummaging inside it with nicotine
stained fingers.
Olivia and Evie exchanged weary glances over the coffee
pot before Olivia reached over to stop the higgledypiggledy
detritus of her mother's handbag spilling off the
table as Sybil lost patience and emptied the whole thing on
top of a half-eaten cream bun.
Squashed up cigarette packets with flakes of tobacco
clinging to them fell on to the plate, joined by bits of
paper, pen tops, lipsticked tissues, what looked suspiciously
like cat worming tablets and a baby bottle of
Power's.
'In case I needed heating up,' she said, whisking the
bottle away from her daughter and pouring it into her
coffee. The scent of whiskey rose into the air beguilingly
and Evie and Olivia exchanged yet another glance. Without
speaking, they both knew what the other was thinking:
'I could do with a drink myself!'
After three hours dragging Olivia's crotchety mother
around the streets of Dublin, looking for a suitable outfit
for Evie's father's wedding, both women could have done
with a quadruple vodka and tonic, if only to ward off the
memory of Sybil dropping a very nice crepe suit to the
floor in the changing room of Marks and Spencer's and
rudely demanding to know what had happened to
Switzer's.
'It's gone, Mother,' hissed Olivia as she tried to smile
apologetically at the changing room assistant, a difficult
task when your face was set in a rictus of embarrassment. 'It's my favourite shop. Whaddya mean "gone"?'
demanded Sybil crossly, attempting to kick the suit out of
her way as she reached for a lavender polo-neck jumper
that had seen better days.
'Gone, closed down, no more,' snapped Evie, whose own
teeth were clenched with temper. 'Let's get out of here, I
need a tea break.'
While Olivia, puce with mortification over her mother's
behaviour, apologised over and over again to the assistant,
Evie swung into action. She gathered up Sybil's belongings
and helped her on with her mothball-scented fur coat.
Rosie had grinned that morning when she'd seen Sybil
arrive at their house in all her three-quarter-length mink
glory.
'You're brave wearing that, Auntie Sybil,' she'd said.
'Some animal liberation rights person might spill red paint
all over you.'
'Then I'll spill it right back over them,' declared Sybil.
'She would, too,' Evie muttered.
Luckily, the shoppers on (Grafton Street were all too
busy wielding brollies and trying to avoid the lashing
early-February downpour to bother with a white-haired,
gin-mottled sexagenarian in a coat that looked more rat than mink after forty years of hard wear. So the threesome
made it safely to Bewley's where they sat with their coffee
and Evie wondered yet again why she'd agreed to accompany
Olivia and her mother on this shopping expedition.
Well, she knew really. Olivia's begging had done it.
'Please, please, come, Evie! ! can't cope with her on my
own, you know.'
Realising that Olivia was more than a little depressed,
not up to hours of listening to her mother's bitching, and
certainly not up to Sybil's imperiously demanding lunch
plus copious amounts of wine at five past twelve, Evie had
said yes. Which meant she was spending the last Saturday
before the wedding looking for something for Sybil de
bloody Were to wear when she still hadn't found anything
for herself.
She'd toyed with the idea of going in her best outfit, a
red and black suit she'd bought in the sales two years
previously. But everyone had seen her wearing it and she
didn't want her father to think she hadn't bothered. Now
that she was actually going to the wedding, she'd decided
to give it her best shot.
Evie didn't approve but nobody was going to call her a
spoilt, selfish creature who couldn't bear to see anyone
take her place. Well, nobody was ever going to call her that again. It had been painful enough the first time Cara had
flung the accusation at her. She wasn't going to give her
sister the opportunity a second time.
So Evie would dance at her father's wedding, sip champagne
and smile for the photos, no matter what her
misgivings were. And if she bought something new, it
could double for her own going away outfit at her wedding
in September.
'I hate that colour on you,' Sybil was saying, glaring at
Olivia, immaculate and beautiful in a saffron satin shirt
that matched the pale gold strands of her hair and made
her look like a mermaid on a day out at the hairdresser's.
'You look washed out.'
Olivia, used to a lifetime of such catty comments, sipped
her coffee silently.
And no matter how had Vida was, Evie told herself, she
was nothing like poor Olivia's nightmare of a mother.
Imagine growing up with that!
'Stephen doesn't like it either. He told me so, said you
looked nicer in grey,' Sybil added triumphantly. 'Yellow is
so tarty.'
God, she was such a bitch, Evie thought.
'I think you look lovely,' she told Olivia firmly.
Her friend smiled gratefully.
The conversation died after that and they sat in silence
for another few minutes while Evie wondered if they
should shop a bit more or just abandon the whole enterprise
and send Sybil to the wedding in one of her trademark
cat-pee-and-moth-ball-scented rig outs.
Sybil's sense of smell was shot after years of smoking like
a trooper and she never appeared to realise she ponged
more of Eau de Moggy than Eau de Cologne.
'Don't know why we can't go to a bar for a snifter,' she
grumbled once she'd finished her whiskey-laced coffee.
'Shopping's easier with a couple of tots inside you.'
'It'd be easier if we could stop at a couple of tots,' Evie
said, steel in her voice. 'But then ten or twelve is a couple for some people.' She eyeballed Sybil icily until the older
woman finally looked away.
Sybil recognised a foe worthy of her steel in Evie.
Olivia gave her friend another grateful grin. Nobody
could put her mother in her box like Evie. Nobody else dared.
For a few brief seconds, Evie considered their options.
She and Olivia could stuff Sybil in a taxi, give the poor
driver a tenner and a couple of aspirin for the headache
he'd inevitably have after three minutes, and send her to
the train station. Then they could meander along gratefully
to The Duke, have a revitalising drink and head back to the
shops to buy something for themselves.
Idyllic. But, sadly, not realistic. Evie sighed, got up from
her chair and marshalled the troops.
'Right, we've got another hour to find you something,
Sybil, and I've just thought of the place we should go. It's a
little shop that specialises in event clothes and they've got
beautiful wedding stuff. I saw an advert for it in Style magazine with photos of a couple of very flattering suits.'
'Nothing insipid,' Sibyl said with a bitchy glance
towards Olivia.
'Nobody could put you in anything insipid,' Evie said
sharply, wishing Olivia would stand up for herself. 'It'd be
like putting the Queen in Sleeping Beauty in pastel pink
instead of black.'
'We are in a right mood today,' Sybil said happily. She
loved a fight. 'Your betrothed having second thoughts, eh?
I hope not. Whatever I'm buying today is what I'm
wearing for your bash. When is it anyway? August? I hope
you're not sticking on a white dress at your age. Mutton
dressed as lamb is what we called it in my day.'
Evie gritted her teeth. Exactly how she got through the
next hour she never knew. Enlivened thanks to the shot of
whiskey, Sybil was in fine fettle, laughing coquettishly and
making smart remarks.
But at least she was in a better mood for shopping and
when Evie caught her swigging from a second miniature
bottle of whiskey in the changing room, the younger
woman said nothing, just passed her an extra strong mint
after a moment.
Predictably, a tipsy Sybil liked the post-second-drink
outfit the best. The colour of a just-ripened peach, the soft
wool braided jacket and skirt actually looked marvellous
on her and watching how the subtle hue lit up her worn
face, Evie realised what a beauty Sybil de Were must have
been in her day. Her pre-bottle-of-gin-a-day day.
As if she was thinking the same thing, Olivia hugged her
mother suddenly, something she rarely did.
'You look great, Mum,' she said, eyes wet with emotion.
'Who's paying for this?' demanded Sybil truculently,
oblivious to the Kodak moment. 'You, I hope?'

'What did you get, Mum?' asked Rosie that evening,
warming her back against the fire in the sitting room while
her mother and Olivia lay like exhausted bookends on
armchairs in front of her.
Evie grimaced. The sort of thing I was determined not
to buy,' she answered. 'A pale blue suit. It's a bit mother of the
bride,' she added glumly.
Actually, it was very mother-of-the-bride and she was
quite sure that as Vida would look stunningly elegant in
whatever little designer number she chose to wear, Evie
would look like Heap of the Week by comparison. She
could just imagine Vida's glamorous guests contrasting the
two women and wondering what Vida would do to make
over her frumpy step-daughter. A total body transplant and
about twenty thousand quids' worth of facial surgery, she
reckoned.
'It's not mother-of-the -bride at all,' said Olivia
staunchly. 'It's lovely, a pale blue with a duck egg blue
stripe running through it, with a knee-length skirt and a
high collar.'
Rosie, her head angled to one side as she tried to picture
the outfit, thought of how pale blue did absolutely nothing for
her mother's colouring and how high collars were on
the 'avoid' list for women with big busts. Women like her
mother, in fact.
'Sounds fab,' she said enthusiastically. 'Put it on and give
us a fashion show.'
Because she half-hoped that the outfit might be miraculously
improved by the addition of flesh-coloured tights
instead of the black ones she'd been wearing when she
tried it on in the shop, Evie ran upstairs to change. The
right shoes, she told herself, and those suck-it-all-in knickers
would make it look OK, she decided with renewed
optimism.
'What did you get, Olivia?' asked Rosie, plopping down
on the floor beside the fire and stretching out like a big
cat.
'I didn't buy anything new. We spent so much time
with my mother, we barely had time to shop. I'm going
to wear something from my best wardrobe,' said Olivia,
whose 'best' wardrobe resembled the Designer Room in
Harrods.
'You could wear that grey knitted dress you got last year
in the Design Centre,' Rosie suggested.
Olivia thought of the elegantly clinging gun metal grey
knitted sheath with matching cardigan by Lyn Mar. Fashioned
from sinuous silk, the dress flowed and clung around
her body in all the right places and she was tall enough to
carry off its matching ankle-length cardigan. But Stephen
didn't really like it.
'Too tight,' he'd said disapprovingly when she came
home with it, buoyed up after an adventurous shopping
expedition with Evie and Rosie. 'Tight clothes do nothing
for you, Olivia, I've told you that time and time again.'
He'd hate it if she wore that to the wedding. The day
would be ruined before it would have started.
'I don't think it's the right sort of outfit for your
grandfather's wedding,' she said hesitantly.
Rosie shrugged. 'I think it'd be very nice but . . .' She
tailed off as Evie walked in, a study in blue.
The right tights and the right shoes hadn't, unfortunately,
had a magical effect on the suit. It was still an
unforgivingly icy hue which drained the colour from her
face, while the skirt, probably a thing of beauty on a
willowy creature with legs to her armpits, didn't do a lot to
flatter Evie's short ones.
Rosie and Olivia, who both loved her dearly, didn't point
any of this out. Loyally, they told her she looked beautiful
while Olivia mentally vowed to lend Evie some expensive
cream calfskin shoes that would give her some more
height, and Rosie quietly vowed to encourage her mum to
apply some fake tan the night before to give her pale skin a
little colour.
'I'm not sure . . .' Evie twisted around to see herself
from behind. 'My legs look horrible in pale tights.'
'They don't,' chorused the other two.
'Maybe I should wear my red suit after all,' she debated.
Olivia's mouth formed a little oval before she snapped it
shut. She didn't want to hurt Evie by saying that the red
suit would be much, much nicer than the pale outfit she'd
chosen. Diplomacy was very difficult.
'No, that's very nice, Evie,' she said instead.
Looking at Evie's pretty face with her large, expressive
eyes, upturned little nose and soft, rounded contours,
Olivia knew exactly what her friend should do - stop
wearing her hair in that severely sleek plait and get it cut
differently. Then dump her safe, conservative clothes, all
the blacks and the navys, and wear the rich jewel shades
that really became her. Amethysts, crimsons, bronzes,
Prussian blue.
They'd seen the most stunning outfit when they were
shopping: a rich imperial purple trouser suit with a jacket
with a nipped-in waist that would show off Evie's hourglass
figure to perfection. But she, as usual, had gone for
the restrained safety of the blue, saying she couldn't
possibly wear a trouser suit to a wedding.
'Well, it's new and nobody can say I haven't made an
effort,' Evie said, gazing at the bit of herself she could see
in the mantelpiece mirror. 'I needed a going away outfit for
my wedding. Simon will be pleased, he loves blue.'
She went back upstairs to change. Was the red suit
better? she wondered glumly. What was she thinking of?
Nothing was better. She looked a mess and despite all her
plans for a cellulite-free bum in time for her honeymoon,
had found it almost impossible to return to her caffeine
and sugar-free diet since Christmas. And she still carried
those extra five pounds she'd put on comfort eating during
the holidays. Evie stripped off her suit and thought miserably
of the way she wanted to look: exotic and beautiful.
Mysterious, maybe.
Heroines in novels were always mysterious, always able
to bewitch the hero with their enigmatic gazes and their
captivating beauty. Like Vanessa in Passionate Fury. A
French TV journalist, she was secretly a Russian princess
but had hidden it from everybody for years.
Her background gave her an air of mystery which
couldn't be breached - until tough war reporter Dirk came
on the scene. Hard-bitten, battle-scarred and wickedly
handsome, he'd fallen in love with the intriguing Vanessa.
Evie sat at her dressing table wearing her unbuttoned
black cardigan and tried to imagine what it would be like
to be a mysterious and enigmatic Russian princess disguised
as a French journalist. She wrapped the cardigan
around her so that it left her shoulders and neck bare,
pulled the hand from her plait and shook her head so her
hair cascaded around her shoulders and entered her dream
world . . .
'Why won't you tell me everything?' Dirk said hoarsely,
drinking in Evie's beauty as she stood before him, half-clad in
the delicate nightgown that outlined her slim shape against the
room's many soft lights. 'You're keeping it a secret from me
and I must know. I must know everything.'
She stifled a sob, one hand touching her beautiful face,
instinctively hiding the faded scar that ran from one arched
eyebrow into her ebony hairline.
I can't, Dirk. You've got to understand - I buried the past
in Russia, I can't drag it up again. I've tried so hard to forget.'
'Dammit, don't block me out,' he growled, losing patience.
In one long stride he was beside her, pulling her against his
strong, muscular body. He was taut, like a coiled spring ready
to unwind in one fierce movement.
His face was beside hers, those fierce blue eyes burning into
her hazel ones with a passion she'd never seen before.
I lis skin was warm and Evie remembered how it had felt to
feel his arms roaming over her naked body, bringing her to
pleasures she'd never dreamed about. But still she couldn't tell
him. He'd kill those men for what they'd done to her if he
knew. He'd find them and kill them and she loved him too
much to let him even try. It was better that she left his life,
crept away silently in the night as if she'd never been there,
never loved him.
'Tell me,' he breathed, 'tell me . . .'
She weakened with his arms around her. 'Oh, Dirk, I want
to explain but it's not easy,' she faltered, breathing in the male
scent of him because she knew that after tonight she'd never
see him again.
Then she looked up at him, looked into his eyes, lost herself
in their azure depths. 'Make love to me, Dirk,' she said simply.
She let the nightgown slip from her shoulders and felt his
mouth fasten on hers, almost brutal in his eagerness to kiss
her . . .
'Mum, Olivia's going.' Rosie's clear voice called up the
stairs and penetrated Evie's fantasy world.
'I'm coming,' she called hack. A pale-faced woman with
her hair a straggly mess stared back at her from the mirror.
Boring, conservative Evie, not the enigmatic woman who
could make tough Dirk throb with passion at her very
touch.
The boring Evie buttoned up her cardigan, scraped her
hair back into a ponytail with unnecessary viciousness and
went downstairs.
Olivia - anxious to get home because after an entire
six hours minding Sasha, Stephen would be looking at his
watch impatiently - was standing in the hall with her
coat on.
Rosie was telling Olivia about the jacket she had her eye
on in Miss Selfridge. 'It's fantastic A fake pony skin long
jacket in chocolate brown. My friend Charlotte has these
brown PVC trousers I can borrow and I've got a taupe
chiffon top for underneath.'
'For the wedding?' asked Evie, not sure if she liked the
idea of fake pony skin and fake leather as a wedding
ensemble.
'Relax, Mum, it'll be cool,' Rosie said blithely. 'Cara's
seen the jacket and she thinks it's delicious.'
'Your aunt's taste leaves a lot to be desired,' Evie said, a
bite to her voice. 'Lord knows what she's going to wear.'
She was still angry with her sister over what Cara had
said about the wedding. Angry and terribly hurt. Even if
Evie had shamefacedly to admit it was true, that didn't
mean she wanted to be told she was spoilt and jealous.
After three days of suspended hostilities over Christmas,
Cara had finally lost her temper the afternoon before she
was due to return home and had vented her anger on Evie.
'You haven't said two words to Dad today,' she'd
snapped, flinging dishes into the washing-up water with
blatant disregard for breakages. 'And as for poor Vida . . .
If you weren't going to talk to her at lunch, you should
have just driven home to Dublin and left us to it. It was
so rude to sit like that in silence, like a bloody spectre at
the feast!'
'Be quiet!' hissed a startled Evie, nearly dropping the
drying up towel. 'They'll hear us.' Her father, Vida and two
neighbours who'd been invited in for lunch, had retreated
to the cosy living room with Rosie circling and doling out
the second pot of coffee.
Cara aimed a wooden spoon at the sink and fired it in,
suds going everywhere. 'Who cares if they hear us? They'd
want to have been blind and deaf not to have noticed you
sitting in icy silence during lunch. Would you like some gravy, Erne? No. Got all your plans made for your big day, Evie? Yes. Talk about Ms Chatty! I don't know why you
don't get flash cards made so you don't have to actually
speak, just hold a card with the words "Yes" or "No"
written on it. You'd only need two of them after all.'
Evie reddened. She knew she'd been monosyllabic during
lunch but she hadn't thought anyone would notice.
They were all having such a nice time, her father and Vida
so wrapped up in each other, that she'd felt totally surplus
to requirements. Who'd have observed her sitting quietly?
Cara, that's who.
'What I don't understand, Evie,' she said finally, abandoning
any pretence at washing up, 'is why you spent years
teaching me to think about other people, to be a kind,
decent, thoughtful person with a sense of responsibility
and sensitivity, when all it takes is for one shock to the system and you're behaving like some infantile, immature,
witless idiot.'
Evie was speechless but Cara still wasn't finished. 'I
know you're finding this wedding hard to take but you're
not even trying to accept reality. It's happening so deal
with it,' she snapped. 'I'd hate to see what sort of a cow
you'd have turned out to be if something really awful had
happened to you. You don't know how lucky you are, Evie.
You just don't know.'
Cara's voice was bitter now, so bitter that Evie wondered
where this was all coming from.
'Get down off your high horse and have a look at the
real world. Dad deserves some happiness and if we hadn't
both been so tied up in our own little lives, we might have
seen he was lonely. I'm grateful to Vida for coming along
because I don't want him to spend the rest of his life on his
own. And if you could stop thinking about yourself for five
minutes, you'd agree.'
Cara left the kitchen then and didn't speak to her sister
for the rest of the evening. The following day she got the
bus back to Dublin. Their phone conversations since then
had been brief and all about surface matters, the memory
of that heated discussion looming over them like a thunder
cloud nobody wanted to talk about.
Evie felt guilty about Cara. Guilty and resentful. Cara
was supposed to be on her side, not Vida's. If her own
sister couldn't understand her point of view, who could?
What niggled her was the feeling that Cara hadn't been
speaking in general terms when she'd yelled about having
something awful happen to you. She'd been talking about
something specific, Evie was sure of it. Something Cara
had never told her. That thought nagged at the back of her
brain. What had happened to Cara and why had she kept it
a secret?
Rosie was still talking about wedding outfits.
'Cara said she'd like to buy a suit but she's a bit broke,'
she revealed.
"I hope she does get a suit,' Evie said. 'I mean, you never
know what sort of rig out she's going to turn up in. I've
been afraid she'll arrive in combat trousers and a Tshirt
and show us all up in front of Vida's posh friends.'

At that precise moment, what to wear to her father's
wedding was probably the furthest thing from Cara's
mind. She was bending over her drawing board putting the
finishing touches to a campaign which had been left on her
desk when she and Zoe returned from lunch the day
before.
'It's an emergency,' Bernard had written on the carelessly
scrawled note. 'Get it done by Monday.'
No please, thank you or I'm sorry if I interrupted your
Friday, your Saturday or indeed, your whole bloody life,
Cara simmered. No. That's because I don't have a life, do I?
No bloody life and no bloody career either. Just a psychopathic
nutcase for a boss who thinks I can work late on
Friday and all day Saturday without so much as a bit of
common courtesy.
She hated working at the weekends, loathed the way the
office was silent after lunchtime on Saturday, couldn't
stand the way the building creaked eerily as if there were
hordes of unseen burglars shimmying up and down drain
pipes and sneaking around the office, concealing themselves
behind filing cabinets when she sneaked downstairs
to look.
Cara knew the noises were a combination of the heating
pipes cooling down and creaky old floorboards, but that
didn't make it any less scary.
A final ten minutes of concentrated effort did it. There.
Finished.
Wearily, she brought the finished design over to
the colour photocopier and made several copies. Then she
packed up her stuff, and went downstairs to drop the
design on the creative director's desk. She'd just laid it
carefully down when she heard footsteps behind her and
froze with shock.
'Cara, what are you doing here at half-six on a Saturday
night?'
In front of her stood Ewan from copywriting, looking
totally different from the way he normally did in a dark
suit instead of his usual casual gear.
Like all the copywriters, he dressed down most of the
time and she'd never seen him in anything other than jeans
or sloppy trousers, dark curly hair flopping over his collar. But the smart grey suit looked good on him.
'You gave me a shock,' was all she could say. Her knees
felt weak and she found herself leaning shakily against a
desk.
'Sorry.' He touched her shoulder briefly. 'I didn't mean
to startle you. I didn't expect there'd be anyone here at
this time. Don't tell me,' he said, 'a Bernard special? The
"have this for me before the weekend is over" lark?'
'Ten out of ten for observation,' she replied. 'I've been
here the whole bloody weekend and I'm shattered and
can't for the life of me see what's so vital about a paint
shop campaign that we have to have it by nine on Monday.
Or will the entire country go into DIY meltdown if I
don't?'
Ewan grinned, which showed off a broad flash of very
white teeth. Me was gorgeous when he smiled, Cara
thought, off-handedly. Pretty gorgeous even when he
didn't, actually. She'd never gone along with the office
gossip that he was a 'fine thing', to use Bernard's
secretary's drooling accolade. But now Cara could sec
Ewan was actually extremely attractive, with those sleepy
greenish eyes, that lop-sided grin and that big mouth of
his. She idly wondered if he could kiss. Cara! What are
you like?
'I think Bernard likes setting impossible tasks just for the
hell of it,' Ewan said, distracting her as he leaned against a
desk and stretched out long lean legs. 'He did it to my boss
when he started here but my boss - well, you know Ken he
worked one weekend and said never again. Bernard
would have to pay him quadruple overtime. Which meant
it never happened again.'
'Clever Ken,' muttered Cara. 'But I'd like to see Bernard's
face if I started demanding quadruple overtime. Lowly
graphic designers are on the bottom rung of the Yoshi
Advertising ladder.'
'I know what you mean.' Ewan smiled ruefully. 'Have
you much more to do tonight?'
'Actually, I'm finished.'
'Great. Fancy a drink?'
Cara didn't need to think about it. Unwinding over a
drink and bitching about Bernard seemed like a nice way
to end a totally crappy day.
'Sure, I'll just get my stuff from upstairs.'
She sprinted up the back stairs happily, glad that she had
something to do that evening. Phoebe was going out to a
party and, although she'd been invited, Cara wasn't in the
mood to go along and play gooseberry. An enjoyable gin
and platonic evening out with Ewan would be a nice
alternative to another evening of Blind Date and trying to
control her consumption of frozen Mars Bar ice cream.
Three boxes a week was just too much for two women to
get through effortlessly.
She grabbed her rucksack off the floor by her desk,
dismissed the idea of combing her hair and sticking on some lip balm - Ewan was just a guy from work, after all and
bounced downstairs to where he was waiting.
'What are you all dressed up for?' she asked as they
walked companionably along the street to the bright lights
of O'Dwyer's. He was as tall as she was, which was nice.
'Funeral,' he answered.
'God, I'm sorry!' she replied, shocked. 'Was it anyone
close to you?'
'No, a friend of my mother's. I was dragged along for
moral support. Or in case anybody started a fight.'
'Wow!' Cara said. 'What sort of funeral was it? A Hell's
Angels one?'
'Nothing like that,' he chuckled as they found spare bar
stools and ordered two Beck's. 'It's a bit complicated but
my mother and the guy who died had been involved for
years but then he finally left his wife a couple of years ago
and moved in with another woman. I can tell you, my
mother and his wife weren't pleased! Putting the three of
them together at the funeral seemed like a recipe for
disaster but they all maintained a dignified silence, amazingly
enough. He was a great guy'
'Was he sort of your stepfather?' asked Cara, intensely
curious about this rather unusual family set up.
'No, I never had a real father figure,' Ewan said, not
sounding particularly upset about the fact. 'My mother had
boyfriends and Stan, the man who died, drifted in and out
of our life. But it was really just me and my mother. I never
knew my real father. He left when I was a baby. Bit of a
free spirit, apparently. He went to Australia and never
came back.'
'And I thought my family were weird,' Cara said, taking
a deep slug from her bottle of beer.
'What's weird about them?'
'Absolutely nothing compared to yours,' she said
jokingly. 'My mother died when I was six and my father
never married again until now. He's met this American
widow and they're getting hitched on Friday.'
'Good for him,'
'Ah, but the problem is,' Cara interrupted, 'my elder
sister has a bit of an Electra complex about my dad and
she's foaming at the mouth about the wedding. She's also
harbouring conspiracy theories about his fiancee of the
Black Widow sort.'
"I get it,' Ewan leaned back in his seat and loosened his
tie. 'Your dad is happy as a pig in shit until, two months
later, he keels over in his sleep and your new stepmum
runs off with the family millions?'
Cara chuckled, amused that he'd put his finger on it so
aptly. 'The fatal flaw in this theory is that the family
millions don't exist or,' she fingered the frayed hem of her
second-hand man's linen jacket. 'I wouldn't be dressed like
this.'
'Oh, I don't know,' Ewan said, eyeing her from her
tangled curls and flushed, high cheekbones down to the
faded, tight jeans she'd only put on that morning because
everything else was in the laundry basket. 'You look pretty
good to me. That second-hand chic look suits you.'
Cara blinked for a moment, unsure what was coming
next.
He continued. 'I can't see you in a twinset and pearls
somehow, even if they came from Armani.' He drained his
beer. 'Your round, I believe, Ms Rich Bitch.'
She laughed. What seemed to have started out as a
compliment had segued neatly into a joke. A flattering joke
that she looked good, but a joke nonetheless. And it was
her round, as Ewan had pointed out. Cara preferred it
when men treated her like one of them, one of the lads.
Standing her own round, being as tough as any of them, that was the way to be safe. There could be no mixed
signals when you swore as proficiently as any male, wore
bigger Doc Marten's than they did - she was size eight and
could tower over most of them.
They sat and talked for a couple of hours and Cara
enjoyed herself so much, she wondered why she'd never
taken the time to talk to Ewan before. Maybe it was the
fact that he was attractive and had a certain devil-may-care
air about him that had kept her away.
She was wary of men who were gossiped over in the
women's loos and always scored high on the 'Who in the
office would you like to sleep with most?' games when
the female staff were on the piss. Cara never joined in
those games.
'Spoilsport,' Zoe would say.
'Trollop,' Cara would answer lightly.
Ewan bought the next round and they chatted, laughed,
bitched and generally had a whale of a time.
At half-nine, Ewan said he had to go. 'I'm playing
football tomorrow afternoon and the coach will kill me if I
turn up hungover.'
'On a Sunday?' she asked, piqued that their cosy little
evening out was ending so abruptly.
'It's a charity match for this mentally handicapped
school. We do it every year. It's good fun - unless you're
dying after a Saturday night bender, that is. Do you want to
come?'
For the second time that evening, she was speechless.
The, come to your match?' she gulped.
'Yeah, you'd enjoy it.' Ewan grinned at her. 'You'll like
the lads on the team, they're good crack. We always go out
after this match and have a slap up dinner and some
drinks. A bit of a party really. You'll come, won't you?' His
face was eager, the green eyes crinkled up attractively at
the corners. Cara could see how he scored so high on so
many drunken lists from the Yoshi girls.
She considered what she'd be doing on Sunday. Under
normal circumstances, she and Phoebe would stagger off to
Flames restaurant at about one for a huge brunch of fat
chips, nuclear-missile-sized sausages or maybe a Flames
special burger, which they'd consume while squabbling
good-naturedly over the papers.
But since the advent of Ricky, the Sunday morning ritual
now consisted of Cara leaving the flat to get breakfast after
listening to much heaving and giggling from Phoebe's
room. Going to Flames wasn't so much fun on her own
either and finding funny bits in the papers was boring
when there was nobody to read them out to.
She looked at Ewan, smiled and said as casually as she
could: 'I'd love to.'

'A date? You've got a date with him!' squeaked Phoebe in
delight when Cara got home to find her and Ricky
ensconced in the kitchen making toasted cheese sandwiches
with some Cheddar that looked dangerously gone
off.
'It's not a date.' she protested. 'It's an ... outing. He
knows I like football and going for a few drinks, that's all.'
'What, and that's not a date?' said Ricky, his mouth full
of toasted sandwich. 'He'll get you plastered at the piss up
and try to score!' Laughing happily at his own lame joke,
Ricky spewed sandwich all over the counter.
"I thought you were going to a party,' Cara said, ignoring
him. Ricky was good-looking hut, God, he was dense. Not
to mention annoying.
'We did but the music was awful, there was no free
booze and they had nothing but about ten packets of salt
and vinegar crisps to eat. I only like cheese and onion and we were ravenous. Plus, we're too broke to go out to the
pub,' Phoebe revealed with a bite to her voice.
'I don't understand you pair,' Cara said, wriggling past to
get a Mars Bar ice cream out of the freezer box. 'You both
work in the bank, you deal with money all day, you get
well paid - and you never have a bean. My bank account is
healthier than yours, Phoebe, and I'm hopeless with
money.'
Ricky finished his mouthful and licked his full lips clean
with the pink tongue Phoebe claimed left her weak with
excitement. 'Yeah, er . . . talking of money, you couldn't
lend us a tenner?'
Cara looked at his beautiful vacant face. 'You're right,
Ricky, I couldn't. You still owe me a fiver after the night
we went to Brady's.'
'Did you borrow money off Cara?' squealed Phoebe,
turning to her boyfriend.
'Yeah,' he muttered sheepishly. 'I haven't forgotten it,
Cara.'
Not like he'd conveniently forgotten the previous fifteen
quid she'd lent him, Cara reflected grimly. She'd learnt her
lesson with Ricky. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, etc,
etc. Especially to Ricky. It was obvious that he was never
going to dazzle the banking world with his business
acumen and would always be stony broke unless he figured
out how to get into modelling. It was a complete mystery
to Cara how he'd managed to get a job in the bank in the
first place. After a few months of seeing him every second
day, she'd come to the conclusion that Phoebe's joy in
going out with such a perfect physical specimen had
blunted every other sense in her. Like her common sense,
for example.
Ricky was glorious-looking, had a body to die for and
had enough sex appeal for four normal people but the
space between his two perfectly shaped ears was entirely
empty.
Ewan, she reminded herself smugly, was good-looking and clever. Not in Ricky's cover-of-GQ league, but still
damn good-looking. Ricky was too smooth, anyway. Too
perfect. Ewan had that tough edge to him, a sort of
don't-mess-with-mc edge.
She wondered where he'd got it. She didn't know that
much about him, really, or why he had the indefinable
air of danger about him. Maybe she'd find out more
tomorrow.
The next morning, Ricky had gone by the time Cara
arrived back from the shop with the Sunday papers, having abstained from her usual fry up in Flames in
favour of a pot of Blue Javan and a croissant in a tiny
coffee shop that played mellow jazz music and served
every type of coffee imaginable. In the living room
Phoebe was aimlessly watching the box and eating cornflakes
at the same time.
When the Wonder Woman music blared after the ad
break, Cara's immediate reaction was to dump the papers,
forget about her plan to tidy up her bedroom and sink into
seventies-induced catatonia on the couch. Wonder Woman had been her favourite TV programme as a child.
She'd dreamed of having heavy gold bangles that could
deflect bullets and a lasso that could knock a villain to his
knees with one expert flick of the wrist. But when she
threw the papers on to the coffee table and half an inch of dust and fluff shot up into the air like startled dandelion
heads, she changed her mind.
'This place is a pit, Phoebe,' she said in disgust. Piles of
old magazines and papers were scattered around the floor
so that you could - mercifully - only see bits of the
puke-coloured carpet with its putrid green paisley design.
The previous night's glasses and mugs still sat on the coffee
table and a few of an even earlier vintage littered the
mantelpiece alongside several used up boxes of matches, a
candle that had melted down completely and the detritus
of several bales of briquettes.
Even the fire burning merrily in the grate couldn't inject
a bit of cosiness into the untidy and unloved squalor of the
room. It hadn't had a good spring clean for months. Cara
leaned against the couch in despair and immediately found
her black combats decorated with marmalade fur.
'And how come we have cat hairs on everything when
we don't have a cat?'
'Ricky has,' mumbled Phoebe, not taking her eyes off the
telly.
Cara gave up. She tied her hair back from her face, rolled
up her sleeves and set to work. After half an hour of hauling papers off the floor and removing all the dust, dirt
and ash from the fireplace, the room had started to
improve. Once she'd started, Cara couldn't stop and she
scrubbed, polished and cleaned demonically while Phoebe
still sat slumped in front of the box.
When the drone of the Hoover didn't move her, Cara
knew something was up.
'What's wrong, Phoebs?' she asked. It wasn't like her
flatmate to shirk her half of the cleaning up - once they
actually got round to it, that was.
Phoebe snuffled. 'We had a fight.'
'What about?' asked Cara, still not relinquishing her
grasp on the handle of the Hoover.
'Money.'
'Oh.' Cara let go of the Hoover and sat down beside her
friend.
'He keeps borrowing money from me but I didn't know
he'd been borrowing from you too. I said something and he
got cross and said I couldn't love him if I felt like that.'
Cara kept her mouth shut. Saying the wrong thing at
this stage would be fatal.
'I said I did love him but I didn't want him taking your
money because he doesn't pay it back.' continued Phoebe
miserably. 'He owes me over a hundred pounds now and
I've paid the last four times we went out. That's really
why we didn't stay at the party. I thought Ricky was
bringing a bottle and he didn't. I was so embarrassed
when I realised.'
Beside her, Cara winced. In her opinion, there was
nothing worse than a relentless borrower, someone who
was perpetually broke and perpetually on the scrounge.
Even worse was the sort of bloke who never coughed up
for an evening out. It wasn't that Cara was one of those
women who expected men to pay every time. Far from it.
Rut a fifty:fifty ratio was reasonable when it came to a
couple paying the bill. With Ricky, the ratio was obviously
twenty:eighty in his favour. And he had to borrow to pay
his twenty per cent.
'Why is he always broke?' she asked in a neutral voice.
Phoebe shrugged. 'He buys loads of clothes.'
He does? goggled Cara, thinking of Ricky's selection of
ultra-casual togs that looked as if they'd been bought from
an outdoor market during a downpour. 'What's he buy nothing
but Gucci underpants?' she joked.
'I don't know,' said Phoebe, her face crumpling miserably.
'He says it's over between us because he needs
affection and doesn't think I love him properly.' And she
started crying.
Hugging Phoebe, Cara did her best to provide comfort.
It took three cups of very sweet tea, a pack of Hob Nobs
and a lengthy discussion on why men were such shits to do
it. Once they'd gone through the ritual male bashing, Phoebe's natural exuberance returned. She began to talk
about how crazy she was about Ricky, how sweet he was to
her and how much she loved the way he scrunched his
face up adorably when he didn't understand something.
Which was most of the time, Cara thought with a
grimace she managed to turn into a sympathetic smile.
'You're right, Cara,' Phoebe said firmly, wiping away the
remains of her tears with a tissue. 'I've got to talk to him
about money and say I love him, but I worry about him
when he never has a penny'
It wasn't exactly the advice Cara had given. ('Tell him
you can't support him while he squanders his money - it's
just not on.'
Cheered up. Phoebe got off the couch and headed for
the bathroom, while Cara, worn out by her role as chief
cleaner, comforter and tea-maker, lay back and yawned.
She glanced idly at her watch and froze with horror.
In a mere three-quarters of an hour she had to be
standing on the sidelines of Ewan's soccer match cheering
him on. A soccer match that was at least an hour away by
bus. She'd have to order a taxi and that'd take half an hour
to get there which left . . . fifteen minutes to get ready.
Shit. Double shit.
Despite offhandedly telling Phoebe the night before that
she planned to go in her combats and big woolly sheepskin
coat 'because it'll be freezing and it's hardly a date', Cara
had still toyed with the idea of dressing up a bit. Just to
show Ewan that she could look like a girl as distinct from a
tough cookie with size eight boots and SAS gear.
Time constraints meant the glamour puss look would
have to wait, she realised, leaping to her feet.
'Phoebe,' she roared as she grabbed the phone to ring for
a taxi, 'get out of the shower. It's an emergency!'
The match had started by the time she belted up to the sidelines, no longer shivering in the cold because she'd
ended up getting the taxi to drop her in the wrong place,
necessitating a five-minute jog through the grounds to the
soccer pitches.
A. big crowd of people were gathered watching the
match, stamping their feet to get warm and "huddled close
together as the biting wind whipped down the pitch far
faster than the ball. It was a bitterly cold February day,
even though a watery winter sun shone low in the sky.
Her eyes stinging in the breeze, Cara stood beside a
couple of heavily made-up women and tried to figure out
which one of the players was Ewan. She didn't even know
which colour his team wore. They all looked the same in
their white shorts, twenty-two men in either red or black
jerseys, hairy legs purple with the cold.
The men in red appeared to be losing as their opponents
had possession of the ball most of the time and kept
almost scoring. The goalie for the black-clad team certainly
wasn't cold: he was running around like a maniac as the
bail rattled around dangerously near his goal.
'Come on, St Helen's!' shrieked one of the women
beside her, a tiny blonde huddled up in a giant blue anorak.
'Get your finger out!' yelled her companion, a red head
in a black puffa.
St Helen's. That sounded a bit familiar, Cara thought.
She peered at the players in red more closely. The St
Helen's forward on the far side of the pitch looked a bit
like Ewan. His hair was flopping all over the place and
he was wirily athletic. Fast, too, she thought approvingly,
as he whizzed up the pitch alongside a team mate,
waiting for the ball. The crowd perked up as St Helen's
took possession of the ball and the shouting grew more
frenzied.
Shrieks of 'Come on, St Helen's, score, score!' mingled
with enraged 'Get it away, Dems!' as the other team's
supporters howled with rage.
Unfortunately, Ewan's team mate's shot at the goal went wide and the Anorak Girlies beside Cara slumped dejectedly.
'Better
luck next time, Michael and Ewan,' yelled the
red head, glossy crimson lips quivering with cold.
Ewan turned his head at her voice and noticed Cara for
the first time.
'Hi,' he yelled, and waved.
The nearby supporters turned to see who he was waving
at and the Anorak Girlies gave her an appraising look.
Flushing to be singled out so noticeably, Cara waved
back at him.
'You're Ewan's friend Cara,' cooed the red head, cute as
a button in a purple velvet hat that set off her ringlets
beautifully. 'He told us all about you. Come and cheer
with us,' she invited. 'We're his friends. I'm Arlene, going
out with Michael,' she said proudly, 'the one who nearly
scored. And Barbara's dating Dave, the left back.'
'Coo-ee, Dave,' shrieked Barbara, as if to prove the
point.
Dave looked around and a Dems man cannoned into
him, knocking them both to the ground.
Barbara giggled nervously. "I hope he's OK,' she said.
'Probably just concussion or a cracked rib or two,'
reassured Cara, a dedicated Arsenal fan who took a dim
view of people distracting the players.
Both women giggled skittishly again. 'You are a card,' Arlene said, 'Isn't she, Babs?'
Cara smiled tightly and took a step away. How did she
come to get stuck beside them? And whatever did they
mean by 'Ewan's told us all about you'?
By half-time, she'd managed to put at least two yards
between herself and the Anorak Girls, and St Helen's had
managed only to let in two goals.
'Hi, Cara,' said Ewan, emerging from the sea of mud
with a broad smile on his face. 'You got here OK, and I see
you met Babs and Arlene.'
They were busy waving excitedly at a concussed-looking
Dave and a very muddy Michael. But like lap dogs, hearing
their names and sensing titbits, they smiled in Ewan's
direction.
'They're great, aren't they?' he said fondly, running a
sweaty hand through his equally sweaty hair.
'Marvellous,' Cara said brightly, thinking that she hadn't
wasted nine-fifty on a taxi to stand beside the sort of
women she couldn't bear to talk to under normal circumstances.
Over made-up in the extreme, Arlene and Babs
looked like they were done up for a disco, not a freezing
February football match.
'I told them to watch out for you,' Ewan said sheepishly.
'Didn't want you feeling lost. Are you enjoying yourself?'
Suddenly, it was as if the day had turned tropical.
Instead of the icy wind clutching her extremities, Cara felt
as if she was being warmed by a benevolent sun.
Ewan had wanted her to feel at home. He'd warned
people in advance about her coming. Forget what she'd
thought about this not being a date: it was one.
'Absolutely,' she replied, eyes shining.
He touched her arm briefly in response. 'Great. I'd
better go and discuss tactics,' he said, and then added
ruefully: 'Or discuss how not to lose too humiliatingly.'
'You're doing great,' Cara said with an encouraging grin.
'Go get 'em.'
He ran off and she found herself admiring him do it.
Those baggy jeans hid a well-muscled form, she realised,
as she watched his gluteal muscles ripple under filthy
shorts.
'Want a sandwich?' inquired a voice and she looked
around to find Arlene opening a Tupperware box containing
freshly cut brown bread sandwiches glistening with
succulent egg. 'Babs has coffee and we've got a hip flask of
brandy.'
'Because it'd freeze your boobs off out here,' said Babs
with the inevitable giggle.
'I'm sure you've only got cups for two people,' said
Cara, astonished.
'No.' Babs reached into her giant handbag and extracted
a mini tower of polystyrene cups. 'I've brought loads. I
always do.'
Babs and Arlene went up several notches in her estimation.
They weren't as dumb as they looked.
'Thanks,' she said gratefully. 'I'd love a sandwich and I'd
kill for a coffee.'
Fortified by coffee, sandwiches and a decent nip of
brandy - Babs' flask proved to be of the big variety - Cara
watched the rest of the match in comfort and enjoyed
herself chatting to the girls.
While St Helen's went on to score two goals, Babs and
Arlene gently grilled Cara about herself and she, just as
gently, grilled them about Ewan. He'd been at school with
Dave and Michael, loved skiing and hadn't brought anyone
to a football match since breaking up with his last girlfriend,
an advertising executive named Layla who was,
according to Babs, 'a complete bitch'.
'She thought she was so clever and looked down her
posh nose at us,' sniffed Arlene, who was a beautician,
'because she was a big noise in her company.'
Cara felt a twinge of guilt. She'd been looking down her
nose a bit at them too, judging them totally by their girlish
giggles and heavy make-up. They could just as easily have
judged her on her bolshie, couldn't-give-a-damn clothes,
but they hadn't. They'd kindly given her the benefit of the
doubt before they judged.
'And her hair . . .' shuddered Babs, a colourist by profession.
'She thought that fat blonde streaks looked nice on
jet black hair, God help her. Somebody should have told
her it looked awful.'
'If she hadn't been going out with Ewan, whom we love,
I'd have certainly told her,' Arlene said menacingly. 'Proper
little cow, she was.'
Cara roared with laughter. 'How do I measure up?' she
asked gleefully.
Arlene turned away from the match and raised one
exquisitely pencilled eyebrow as she surveyed Cara.
'You'll do,' she grinned. 'You're normal, like us. Ewan
said you were dead on and he was telling the truth.'
The final whistle blew. Three:two to Dems.
After the usual back slapping and hand shaking, the
teams dispersed, running either into the tiny clubhouse or
over to the knots of supporters.
Arlene and Babs hurried off to their boyfriends while
Ewan loped over to Cara.
'The girls giving you the third degree?' he panted,
bending over and stretching his muscles.
'They now know my birth sign, my bank account
number and what shampoo I use,' she joked. 'And we
shared coffee, sandwiches and brandy which kept me from
freezing to death. They're great fun, I like them,' she said
truthfully.
'Knew you would.' Ewan stood up straight. 'Well, we got
hammered, so myself and the lads feel we should go out
and get hammered again, if you get my meaning. You're
still on for going out for a meal?'
Even hot and sweaty, his face flushed from exertion,
Ewan looked good. That wide, mobile and eminently
kissable mouth was waiting for her answer.
'Of course. I wouldn't miss it for the world.'
'Great. I'll give you my keys and you can sit in the car
while I shower.'
In the car park, Arlene and Babs were rummaging inside
a massive black jeep, the doors open and M People's
'Moving On Up' pumping out of the stereo system.
Cara wandered over to say hello and her jaw dropped.
They had come prepared in more than just the catering
department, she realised with a shock as they both
emerged from the back seat sans anoraks, wearing dressy
clothes. Babs had replaced her faded denim outfit with a
black brocade jacket worn over velvet bootlegs while
Arlene was now encased in spray-on black jeans and a
long-sleeved purple body that revealed a dizzying amount
of cleavage each time the matching cardigan swung open.
They'd swopped their pitch-side flat shoes for high heels
but, even so, were both at least four inches shorter than
Cara. Beside them, she felt more than a bit inadequate, not
to mention very tall.
'Girls,' she said equably as she looked at her man's navy
overcoat, tattered faded jeans, ancient lace-up brown
boots, and Phoebe's crimson chenille jumper - lent for the
occasion because Cara had nothing clean - 'you make me
sick. How come you pair are done up to the nines after
watching a football match in the freezing cold and I look
like I've been playing in it?'
'Listen, girl,' said Arlene firmly, 'I have to make a big
effort to look good because I'm short, put on weight
quicker than a pregnant woman, and without blusher I've
a face as round as Ronald McDonald. You, on the other
hand, don't have to do anything. Look at you,' she said in
exasperation, staring at Cara's fine-boned gypsyish face
with its plump lips and huge dark eyes. 'You've amazing
bone structure, blow job lips . . .'
Babs broke into howls of filthy laughter at this. 'Lucky
Ewan,' she shrieked.
'And,' continued Arlene, 'you've got a great body with
those bleedin' long legs I'd kill for.'
'Whaddya mean, great body?' muttered an astounded
and embarrassed Cara. 'I'm just big, I'm like a man.'
'You're athletic,' Arlene said. 'Not big. If I looked like
you do in jeans and that jumper, I wouldn't be bothering
with all this slap now. So,' she asked with a smirk, 'does
this worrying about what you're wearing mean you're
coming out with us? Ewan'd like you to . . .'
Cara swatted Arlene's red ringlets with a gentle hand.
'Docs the word "subtle" mean anything to you, Arlene?'
she demanded goodhumouredly.
Babs roared with laughter again. 'You wouldn't ask that
question if you saw the leopardskin bikini she's just
bought. It's got so much uplift, her boobs are pushed up
around her chin and she could eat her dinner off them.'
By the time the lads arrived back at the cars, wearily
carrying sports bags and slugging back cans of isotonic
drinks, Cara and the girls were having their own little party
in the comfort of the jeep, listening to M People and telling
dirty jokes. Babs had produced a bag of diet chocolate bars
which they'd wolfed down with the rest of the coffee,
spiked with brandy, naturally.
'You were wunnerful!' slurred Babs, flinging herself at
Michael when he opened the driver's door.
'You little wagons, you've started without us,' he said,
getting a sniff of her boozy breath. 'We'll have to catch up.'
'Not the hip flask again, Babs,' Ewan groaned, appearing
at the other door beside Cara, freshly washed dark hair flopping around his eyes. 'I told you pair to look after her,
not get her pissed.'
'Nobody got me pissed,' interrupted Cara. 'I'm not
pissed.'
'OK,' grinned Ewan, 'get out of the jeep and let's see
you walk a straight line.'
Laughing, she tumbled out of the door, caught her boot
in the dangling seatbelt and would have fallen flat on to
the tarmac if he hadn't grabbed her.
'Shit!' she gasped, head buried against his scratchy
woollen sweater, arms clutched around his waist as she
tried to right herself.
'Not drunk, huh?' his voice said, surprisingly strong arms
holding her safely.
Inside the jeep, the other girls were convulsed with
laughter.
'She's pie-eyed!' screeched Babs between snorts of
laughter.
Cara wriggled upwards, trying to get her balance back
with one hand leaning on the jeep, the other on Ewan's
shoulder. But he still held on to her, arms around her waist
until they were standing face to face, hip bone to hip bone.
That close, she could smell the just-showered smell of
him and feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek.
For a brief moment she gazed into his face, letting her eyes
roam over the intelligent, sexy eyes and down to the
mobile mouth. He was watching her watching him, his
gaze intense. The electricity between them was palpable
and Cara felt as if time had stood still, as if there was
nobody watching them, as if they were alone in the car
park and anything could happen.
'Bruno's?' said somebody.
Cara wondered if she'd imagined it, a voice breaking
into their own private world.
'Bruno's?' said the voice again. 'What do you think,
Ewan? Are you on for Bruno's?'
He moved away from her, just a tiny movement but it
broke the tension between them. 'Yeah, that'd be fine.' He
looked at Cara. 'Would you like to go to Bruno's to eat?' he
asked softly.
She nodded, thinking of what she'd like to do with Ewan
and eating dinner in Bruno's wasn't on the list. Not at that
moment anyway.
As if he could read her mind, Ewan grinned, kissed her
gently on the lips in almost brotherly fashion, and took her
hand. 'Let's go. We can go off for a drink on our own later,
if you'd like?' he added.
Cara wondered if her eyes could bore into his soul,
because she was sure he could see into hers. It was a heady
feeling. She gave him a liquid gaze, her eyes dark. 'I'd like
that very much,' she said in a voice that sounded huskier
than normal.
They piled into two cars - the jeep and Ewan's sports
car - and drove to the DART station where they left the
cars and took the train into the city. Despite losing the
match, everyone was in high spirits and it was a good
humoured group of six which piled into the restaurant,
taking a table by the window where they could look
through the frosted glass and watch the trendies of Temple
Bar walk past.
Sitting beside Ewan, Cara had no idea what she ate. She
could barely taste it anyway, although everyone else was in
rhapsodies over the food.
'God, this seafood risotto is beautiful,' groaned Michael,
shovelling huge forkfuls into his mouth.
'I know,' muttered Arlene, spearing a mussel, 'it's better
than sex.'
Michael looked outraged. 'Whaddya mean, better than sex?' he demanded, his mouth full.
Everyone howled.
'Not sex with you, darling,' she amended.
'Sex with who, then?' he said, even more outraged.
Everyone howled even louder.
Ewan leaned closer to Cara and whispered in her ear, his
breath tickling the soft skin of her neck, 'Mine isn't better
than sex.'
His fingers curled around her jeaned knee, caressing her
as if he could feel skin instead of denim. She moaned softly
at his touch.
'And you're not even eating the risotto,' Ewan remarked sotto voce.
Cara erupted into giggles and Arlene, who'd refused to
discuss her risotto/sex comment any more, swivelled
around in her chair. 'What's the joke?' she said brightly,
wanting to distract Michael's attention from the knotty
question of past lovers.
Cara shook her head helplessly.
'Private joke,' grinned Ewan broadly.
After a riotous dinner, the other four elected to go for a
drink in The Foggy Dew.
'I think we'll call it a night,' Ewan said.
'Yeah,' added Cara, 'I've got an early start in the morning.'
'Slavedriver
bosses are a pain,' said Dave, an arm around
Babs as they all walked slowly up the street.
Ewan and Cara nodded earnestly, trying to look as if
their desire to get home early was really to do with
Bernard Redmond and not their longing to be on their
own.
'We're going clubbing next weekend,' Babs said to Cara.
'You'll come, won't you?'
'I won't be around next weekend,' she said regretfully.
'My father's getting married next Saturday.'
'She'll come out with us the following week,' Ewan
promised, sliding a warm hand into hers.
Everyone was sad to see her go but adamant she should
go out with them again soon. They were so friendly that
Cara felt warmed by their goodbye hugs and waves. Used
to being always a little on the fringe of groups, it felt nice
to be in the middle of one, welcomed and liked.
She and Ewan walked up to Dame Street and, miraculously,
managed to hail a taxi without too much difficulty.
'Would you like to come back to my place?' he asked as
he opened the taxi door for her.
She nodded.
They sat in the back of the cab, Ewan's hand in hers, and
talked about the day. It had been so very long since Cara
had been on a date that she knew she should have felt
nervous at the thought of one. But today, even though it
had been transformed from a casual day out into the
pleasurable state of a proper date, hadn't made her in the
slightest bit anxious. Now that they were on their own, she
still felt relaxed. Sitting close to Ewan felt utterly and
completely natural.
The taxi stopped at a crossroads and the glare of a street
light shone in, illuminating Cara's profile and dusting her
lustrous dark hair with silvery streaks. Ewan silently
reached over and stroked the high bones of her left cheek,
his fingers softly caressing.
'You're very beautiful, do you know that?' he said
quietly.
It would have sounded corny had anyone else said it, if
anyone would have dared. And if someone had, her first
instinct would have been to punch their lights out.
But when Ewan said she was beautiful, Cara knew it was
because he meant it. It wasn't a throwaway line designed to make her fall at his feet. She was beautiful to him; what
was more, she felt beautiful with him, not a giantess with
clumsy feet and unusual foreign looks.
'I didn't feel beautiful, not ever before,' she said, softly
so the taxi driver wouldn't hear.
'But you do now?' prompted Ewan, his hand still gently
touching her face.
She turned to smile at him, letting her face say it for her.
He lived in the basement flat of an old Georgian house
in Dun Laoghaire. A young couple with kids lived in the
upstairs but they'd cleverly had the floor between the two
floors soundproofed, he explained as they walked up a tiny
garden path to his front door, which meant that the tenant
downstairs could make as much noise as they liked.
'It means I can play my old Abba records at full blast,'
he joked.
Letting them into a tiny hall, Ewan touched a switch
and the large airy room beyond was filled with light. Huge
black and white movie posters dominated cream walls
with a Mondrian-inspired rug sprawled out on wooden
floorboards. But Ewan didn't give Cara a chance to check
out his interior decorating skills. She, in turn, didn't want
to.
At exactly the same moment, they turned and moved
forward, seamlessly melting into each other. His mouth
found hers and this time it was no brotherly kiss like the
one in the soccer club car park. This kiss was strong and
sensual, their mouths clinging together, probing, tongues
twining deeply as they explored.
Cara dropped her rucksack to the ground and pushed off
Ewan's coat. He struggled out of it, their lips still locked,
before wrenching her out of her overcoat.
Silently, urgently, they clung together, hands touching
each other as if they were in a battlefield, afraid a bomb
was going to wipe them out instantly. As if every second
was precious and none could be wasted with their bodies
and mouths separate.
Ewan's lips pressed exquisitely into Cara's skin, moving
over her face and neck: kissing, licking, consuming her. Her
fingers shoved his jumper over his ribs and they stopped
kissing for a moment while he ripped it and his shirt off,
button-; pinging off as he dragged the unopened cuffs over
his hands. Then they were touching again, his face in her
hands as she tried to kiss his face all over, like a blind
person's fingers reading Braille.
He moved his head rapidly to suck her fingers, imprisoning
them in his mobile mouth and sucking them as if he
wanted to eat her whole.
Then her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer to
her as he burned a trail down her face and neck with
molten kisses.
They half fell on to a couch Cara hadn't even noticed,
bodies locked together in a frenzied embrace. She moved
so that she was half lying on top of Ewan, her upper body
crushed against his. Her eager mouth traced down the
smooth skin of his chest to his nipples and he groaned as
she nibbled gently.
Unable to wait a moment longer, Ewan sat up so he was
propped against the couch back and started to pull her
jumper up her body. Straddling him, Cara sat up and
ripped Phoebe's chenille jumper up and dragged off her
cosy grey T-shirt to reveal her completely plain white
cotton bra. Through the soft fabric, her nipples stood out
in rosy peaks and she could see his eyes darken as he gazed
at her longingly.
'You're beautiful,' he said for the second time that day.
Breathing heavily, their lips met passionately and briefly
before he pushed her back to the other side of the couch, fingers and mouth exploring her body greedily.
Like dancers in a practised ballet, they seemed to sense
exactly what the other wanted, moving in unison. At the
same time, they wordlessly moved and stripped off the rest
of their clothes, eyes locked on each other as they tore off
jeans, socks and underpants. His body was lean and well
muscled, strong shoulders tapering down to narrow hips
and long legs.
Naked, Cara stood for a moment, knowing that the
harsh overhead lights were on her and not caring. For once
she didn't feel too tall or unfeminine. She didn't worry
that she hadn't rubbed scented lotion into every part of
her body in case she smelt like a woman who'd had her
shower over twelve hours previously. And she didn't care
that it was at least a million years since she'd shaved her
legs.
Ewan thought she was beautiful and when she was with
him, she felt beautiful.
His hot eyes roamed over her nakedness, then he
wrapped himself around her and she felt that taut, strong
body hard against her. She almost shivered at the sensation
of his skin against hers, revelling in the sensual experience
of making love to this amazing man. She felt wanton,
earthy, she wanted him to explore every part of her body,
she wanted to lose herself in Ewan and let him lose himself
in her. She didn't want it to stop. Ever.
With infinite tenderness, Ewan kissed Cara and led her
back to the softness of the couch.
Are you sure?' he asked as she lay down.
Absolutely,' she replied. She'd never been so sure of
anything in all her life.
He ripped the foil off a condom, not watching what he
was doing but looking hungrily at her. Then he was inside
her, hard and thrusting, and Cara felt herself open up at
that exquisite moment, the feeling of utter closeness,
physical and mental. It was glorious: the sensation of his
mouth in her hair, breathing her name as they moved
together expertly.
Her breath came in short gasps as they came together,
their bodies fused in an electric moment, skin on skin,
sensual and exhilarating all at the same time.
When she screamed his name as orgasm rippled through
her, she felt as if she'd been set free from a prison, like a
bird let out of a tiny cage. Her body quivered, high on the
vibrating ecstasy of the moment, high on feeling his
fevered passion for her before she felt the sweet peace of
satiation flood through her.
'Cara,' Ewan moaned raggedly.
She held him to her, clinging to him as if letting go
would be a disaster, until he shuddered to a halt, spent and
exhausted.
'Just as well you've got an insulated ceiling,' Cara
quipped, feeling lost in the silence after her fevered cries a
few moments previously.
Ewan laughed and, arms still wrapped around him, Cara
felt his flat stomach vibrate at the effort.
'You're right,' he said, 'because that was so good, the
neighbours would probably want a cigarette afterwards.'
He turned sideways carefully, not wanting to fall off the
couch which seemed far too small for two tall people to lie
on it all of a sudden. Propping his head on one arm, he
gazed at Cara.
'I gave up smoking four months ago and not having a
cigarette now is probably the hardest moment in that
entire four months.'
'You mean, you don't bring strange women home every
Sunday to do this?' she asked, tongue in cheek.
'No,' he replied, his mouth finding hers again.
She closed her eyes and lost herself in his kiss, loving the
sensation of lying tightly beside him, wrapped around each
other, limbs tangled up.
Ewan seemed in no rush to move. He ran his fingers
lightly over her shoulders, tracing the contours of her body,
stroking every hollow and curve. Feeling like a cat lying in
the sun, Cara simply lay back and enjoyed the feeling
He had the most incredible eyes, she thought idly. The
outer rim of his iris was a deeper green than the rest of his
eyes, as if a watercolour painter had carefully ringed the
hypnotic cloudy green with a deeper, richer colour, almost
the colour of verdigris on old copper. When he looked at
her with that sleepy, sexual gaze, she felt as if he had the
power to melt her insides.
'What are you thinking?' he asked.
It was Cara's turn to laugh. 'I'm the one who's supposed
to ask that. You're supposed to fall asleep and snore while I
lie here and wonder where it's all going and should we get
married in your parish or mine!'
Ewan didn't stop his gentle stroking, fingers caressing
the curve of her waist and gliding down to touch the
length of her thigh. 'I'm afraid that if I fall asleep, I'll lose
you. That you'll have time to think, get scared, be afraid
you've got too close and run out of here without saying
goodbye. I don't want that to happen,' he added.
Cara said nothing. She just wondered how he could be
so intuitive. Did he know that she'd had practically no
relationships over the past six years? Had someone in the
office been sneaking? But nobody knew that much about
her private life, apart from Zoe.
'You're not going to run out on me?' he asked. 'I have
this gut feeling that's your instinct.'
Cara's eyes met his.
'No,' she said. 'What makes you ask that?'
He shrugged. 'I can see it in your eyes. You're like a
hedgehog, all prickly on the outside but soft and scared
inside. When somebody gets to see the inside, you want to
get away from them as quickly as possible.'
'I'm not going to run away,' she repeated. 'I promise.'
His face creased into a smile. 'Brilliant! How about
moving into the bedroom, then, before I fall off this thing.'
'You mean, you have a bedroom too?' she asked in mock
astonishment, looking around the airy living room. 'I
thought this was it?'
In retaliation, he burrowed his fingers into her ribs,
tickling her mercilessly until she pushed him off the
couch.
'Brat:,' he said, getting up off the floor. 'For that, I'm
going to make you sleep on the wet patch.'
'What wet patch?' demanded Cara, swinging her feet to
the floor.
The wet patch we'll have created in a few minutes,' he
replied, bending down and taking her nipple in his mouth.

When Cara opened her eyes, she felt momentarily disorientated.
The room was dark but the streetlight that shone
through the thin curtains in her bedroom wasn't on. The
darkness was suffocating and she panicked, sitting up in
the bed in terror. Her breathing got faster, she was
panicking.
A hand slid out of the crumpled duvet and took hold of
her arm.
'It's all right, Cara. You're with me.'
Ewan. She was in bed with Ewan after a glorious,
glorious evening. Relief washed over her and she burrowed
under the covers, aware of how cold it was outside the bed.
Ewan's naked body was warm and he held her close, still
half-asleep but wanting to curl his body around hers.
Spooned together in the warmth, Cara closed her eyes and
dozed.
She was tired and she should probably go home soon.
After all, they both had work in the morning. She had to
be in early. She wondered what time it was and how
difficult it would be to get a taxi back to the flat. It had to
be after one in the morning anyway.
Then, as her ears adapted to the sounds around her, she
became aware that the noises outside Ewan's flat weren't
middle of the night noises. They were early-morning
noises: the hum of heavy traffic, the sound of people
walking up and down the street outside. She sat up again
and looked at Ewan's side of the bed where a small Mickey
Mouse alarm clock sat. Mickey's big hand was at eleven
and his little hand was nearly at eight. Which meant five to eight and very, very late for work.
'Ewan!' she said. 'We've overslept.'
'Don't care,' he replied, stretching luxuriously and pulling
her back down into the bed. His lips fastened on hers,
his hands slid down her body to see if she was as aroused
as he was.
Cara surrendered to his caresses in an instant. Who cared
if they were fifteen minutes late in to work? she thought,
wrapping herself around Ewan's warm, naked body.
Twenty-five minutes later, she was standing in Ewan's
shower, jets of powerful water streaming all over her. What
a shower! It even had a massage function. The one in her
flat barely had a shower function and you needed to spend
ten minutes under its limp drip to rinse the conditioner off
your hair.
'Need any help?' inquired Ewan silkily, sticking his head
around the curtain and giving her his best lascivious grin.
His face was covered with shaving foam and he was
brandishing a sponge.
'We'll never get to work if you get in here with me,'
Cara said, flicking water at him.
'Spoilsport.'
He retreated and Cara turned her face up to the
powerful stream of water and let it wash over her. It was
hard not to compare this morning with the last morning
she'd woken up with a man in bed beside her.
Although comparing Eric and Ewan was ludicrous. Their
names both started with E, she giggled to herself, but that
was where the similarity ended. Eric was a huge, alcohol
induced mistake but Ewan ... he was something different.
Something special.
Shed loved snuggling up beside him in bed; loved
talking to him softly when they'd finished making love.
She adored the way they fitted together so perfectly, the
way her frame fitted exactly into the curve of his body, the
way his arms held her tightly while he talked nonsense into
her ear.
And, more importantly, she loved the way he understood her. He'd been so right about her immediate instinct
being to run away after they'd made love. But wrong that it
would happen with him. For the first time in years, Cara
didn't want to run away from a man.
'You'll wash yourself down the plughole if you don't
come out soon,' he yelled from outside the shower. 'I've
made coffee for us.'
What to wear was the next problem. For her meeting
with Bernard, Cara knew she couldn't turn up wearing her
ratty jeans but she didn't have time to go home and
change.
'Wear one of my shirts and I have a pair of black denims
that are pretty respectable,' Ewan offered, as he pulled on
a white T-shirt over grey casual trousers. 'You could try
them.'
Dressed in a crisp black cotton shirt that was way too
big for her and a pair of beautifully ironed jeans that were
very snug, her damp curls tied back, Cara looked smart.
Ewan sprayed her with his Eternity for Men, kissed her on
the nose, then stood back to admire her.
'Beautiful. And sexy. In fact, we'll have to get out of here
quickly or I'll want to jump on you again.'
'Don't be daft,' Cara said. 'Not until we've had breakfast
at least,' she amended.
It took them five minutes to swallow two slices of toast
each and gulp the remains of their coffee down before
hurrying out the door.
With Ewan's car at the train station, they got a bus to
pick it up then drove through endless traffic to the
office.
'Maybe we should keep our relationship to ourselves,'
Cara said delicately as they sat in a line of cars with five
hundred yards to go before they reached Yoshi Advertising.
'What do you mean?' asked Ewan, his hand comfortably
resting on her thigh, fingers idly sliding up and down the
black cotton.
'Well . . .' she paused '. . . just not talk about it until . . .
well . . . until we know each other better or . . .' She was
really floundering now. 'Until we've been together for
longer.'
Ewan didn't look pleased at the idea.
'You mean, hide that we're going out?' he demanded.
'Not hide, just be discreet. Bernard might not like it,'
Cara added.
'Fuck Bernard!' Ewan replied venomously. 'He doesn't
run our lives.'
'He's certainly trying to ruin mine,' Cara said gloomily.
'He makes my life hell whenever he can.'
'He will if you let him,' Ewan said succinctly.
'Don't be cross,' she begged him. 'I'd just prefer us to
keep our relationship to ourselves for a while, not let it
become the biggest bit of office gossip since Bernard's
secretary was caught in the men's toilet with a client.
Can't you understand that?'
She couldn't bear to be the centre of attention, with
people giving her knowing glances, the way they had all
those years ago. Keeping her private life just that was too
much of a habit to be abandoned now.
With shameless disregard for the laws of motoring,
Ewan leaned over and kissed her firmly on the lips. 'I
understand. I don't want to keep it a secret too long,
though, Cara. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I want
to be able to take you out to lunch every day and go for
walks with you and . . .' he stopped and grinned '. . . drag
you into the men's toilets myself!'
'And get us both fired?' she laughed, but felt bizarrely
nervous in case anyone from Yoshi saw them together in
the car. It would be just her luck for Bernard to be driving
along in his Jag and spot them kissing. She could imagine
what he'd say: 'No relationships between staff-- one of you
will have to go,' or something to that effect, and Cara
would be out on her ear, jobless and referenceless. She
couldn't risk that. 'I'll hop out here in case anybody sees
us. I'll phone you later, OK?'
'And pretend to be my aunt in case anybody else
answers,' he said drily.
'I won't be your aunt tonight,' Cara said huskily, a
promising look in her dark eyes.
She clambered out into the heavy traffic, eyes darting
around looking for Bernard's distinctive maroon Jag. He
hadn't: been able to get the vanity plates he wanted:
BR 1.
Zoe reckoned he should have got DCKHD - abbreviation
for dickhead. But the car was nowhere in sight.
Cara marched along the road and swung into the lane by
the office, hoping nobody would notice her new clothes or
the gleam in her eyes. She couldn't wait to tell Zoe.
because they were nursing horrible hangovers. And Olivia
and Stephen were barely speaking at all.
Rosie was sick of the lot of them. She fidgeted in her
pew at the front of the church, hands jammed in the
pockets of her pony skin jacket. She could feel the new
packet of Marlboros in her right pocket, still encased in
their shiny paper. For her grandfather's wedding, she'd
splashed out and bought twenty instead of ten and now
they were just screeching to be smoked.
Well, she reasoned, after driving down in the car with
her aunt and mother, both of whom were simmering on
about Gas Mark 7, she reckoned it was going to be a long,
long day and she'd be glad of the comfort of a fag. She
wanted one now, in fact. But you couldn't leave the church
while you were waiting for the bride, could you? Only if
you were sitting down the back and could sneak back in
unnoticed after she'd arrived. Rosie wished heartily she
was sitting down the back and not beside her silent and
bad-tempered extended family.
looking at the two elderly ladies sitting beside her, both
dressed in their Sunday best.
Grandpops looked great, she thought, pleased for him.
In a smart grey suit with a cream rose in his buttonhole,
he looked elegant and distinguished. Definitely not like a
man in his late-sixties. Standing talking to his best man
at the altar, he kept turning around and giving her
encouraging winks, his kind eyes twinkling at her. She
winked back.
Rosie sneaked a look at her watch under the guise of
stretching out and flexing her wrists. Her mother would
kill her if she saw Rosie openly looking at the time.
Ten past two. Vida was ten minutes late. Still, you were
allowed to be late to your own wedding. Rosie decided
she'd be at least half an hour late if it was her wedding. Not
that she had any plans to get married. But if she did, she'd
rather enjoy making them all wait for her so she could
sweep up the aisle fashionably late, blowing kisses to
ex-boyfriends and making them wish they were the lucky
bloke at the altar.
Bored, she admired her chrome-coloured nail varnish for
about the hundredth time. It was seriously Space Age and
she loved it. Cara had given it to her before they'd started
out that morning.
Rosie couldn't see why her mother had got in such a tizz
over Rosie keeping them waiting an extra five minutes
while she painted her nails with it. They were leaving way
too early anyway.
Mind you, any time would have been too early to
travel with her mother and Cara. The atmosphere in the
car had been awful, so Rosie had plugged herself into
her personal stereo and ignored them pointedly ignoring
each other.
Her mother had addressed one sentence to her aunt.
Namely: 'I hope Vida isn't wearing white.' To which Cara
had replied: 'Well, you're wearing it to your wedding,
aren't you?'
After that, Rosie had given up all hope of reconciliation
and had buried herself in an old Ella Fitzgerald tape that had belonged to her father.
She was keeping out of it.
Why couldn't her mother see that Cara didn't want a
fight but wanted to make friends? And why couldn't Cara
see that her mother hated being in the wrong, hated being
criticised and had no idea how to apologise without feeling she'd let herself down in some way? God, Rosie just
wished the pair of them would grow up.

Evie couldn't help admiring the flowers. In a wicked
thought she'd immediately regretted, she'd half-hoped the
Ballymoreen church would be done up like a bordello with
a riot of mismatching bright blooms vying with each other
for supremacy, maybe with some garish ribbons thrown in
for good measure. It would have been proof that Vida
Andersen wasn't the queen of taste she pretended to be, a
Martha Stewart clone.
But there wasn't a clashing crimson, lilac, delphinium
blue and daffodil arrangement in sight. Instead, the mellow
stone of the old church was decorated with velvety roses in
the palest ivory, tied up with fragile grey ribbons. Very
elegant. Evie had to admit it looked lovely.
She caught her father winking at Rosie. Her daughter,
who hadn't stopped fidgeting since they'd sat down,
winked broadly back. Evie leaned forward and shot a
glare along the pew in her direction but Rosie was
pretending to stretch her arms in an attempt to see what
time it was.
Evie wished she could sneak a glance at her own watch
or even ask Rosie the time but, sandwiched between
Great Aunt Al and her mother's second cousin, Fidelma,
who'd turned up out of the blue for the wedding, she
couldn't move. And she wouldn't ask Cara, who was
sitting the other side of Fidelma. Evie could feel the
waves of hostility coming from her sister. It had been that
way all morning.
Cara was just so irritating. Couldn't she see that Evie
didn't want to continue their row?
But once she got in a mood, that was it. Evie had even
tried to talk to her that morning but had got her head
bitten off in the process. She'd only made a simple
comment about hoping Vida wasn't going to turn up in a
ludicrous white fluffy dress and Cara had been so bitchy in
return. I mean, how dared she make that smart remark
about Evie's wedding dress? Evie felt herself flush again
with remembered indignation.
If she wasn't the elder of the two and with an example
to set, she'd have loved to have slapped Cara's face.
At a signal from the priest, the organist sprang into
action and the low throaty warble of the elderly organ
vibrated around the church. Everyone sat up straighter in
their seats and craned their necks for the first glimpse of
the bride Evie, with a suddenly developed lump in her
throat, looked at her father instead. His lined face, as dear
and familiar to her as her own, was illuminated with joy.
The furrows in his forehead magically disappeared as he
watched Vida walk slowly up the aisle. He looked happier
than Evie had seen him for a long time.
The tears pooled in her eyes, brimming over the fringe
of bottom lashes. Evie held her breath, desperately, trying
to stop them from starting to fall.
She hated herself at that moment, hated all those jealous
thoughts she'd done her best to quell but hadn't quite been able to. How could she not want her beloved father
to be happy? He deserved happiness. Cara was right, she
was a cast-iron bitch. She was sorry she'd been so adamant
about not letting Rosie be a bridesmaid either.
Too late, she realised the tears were falling. She snuffled
frantically, hoping nobody else could see. Thankfully she
was hidden behind Aunt Al's vast puce wool bulk and
hopefully if anybody did notice her crying, they'd think she
was overcome with the usual wedding weeping fit. She
couldn't help it, though.
Watching her father stand at the altar and replace her
wonderful mother was still so very painful. But, Evie
decided with a resolute snuffle, she'd mourn during the
ceremony and afterwards she'd start again. She'd show her
father she was happy for him, she'd dance at his wedding tight
skirt suit and Olivia's toe-crunching shoes permitting
- and she'd smile at his new bride.
If only she could warm to Vida. If he'd been marrying
anyone else, Evie could have been totally, one hundred per
cent happy for both of them. Yahoo, where are the
balloons, let's all celebrate! Yet she wasn't happy. There
was something about the cool-eyed American woman she
didn't like. Evie couldn't admit to herself that the problem
might be her own jealousy.
As the organ wheezed asthmatically, the bride finally
came into her line of vision, looking just as wonderful as
Evie had secretly suspected she would.
Radiant in a discreet grey suit, Vida smiled at her
husband to be. Her hair was held up in its usual classic
chignon, with a jewelled clip the only adornment. In her
own conservative blue, with her hair done up in rock
hard curls and wearing an overbright lipstick in an
attempt to look cheerful, Evie felt like a 'fifties Avon lady
by comparison.
Vida handed her ivory bouquet to her one attendant,
her very unmatronly-looking best friend from New York
who was just as chic in a darker grey suit with a helmet of
perfectly coiffed Ladies-Who-Lunch hair. Evie sighed.
How could you compete with that? Vida and her matron
of honour could have stepped out of a Vanity Fair editorial
on Manhattan style. She felt like she wouldn't make the
grade in the style section of Lumberjack Weekly.
Don't get maudlin, she told herself firmly. Try and enjoy
the wedding.
Four-year-old Sasha, adorable in white raw silk with a
big silvery grey sash, looked trustingly up at Vida, who
held out her hand to the little girl.
She was a poppet, Evie thought, eyes filling up again as
she remembered Rosie at the same age. At least Olivia and
Stephen had each other, even if they weren't getting on
brilliantly. When Rosie had been the same age, Evie had
been on her own, a lonely widowed mother.
She still felt as if she was on her own. Simon hadn't been
able to make the ceremony and was coming later, so Evie
had to endure yet another wedding feeling like the only
single woman in a sea of married ones. She felt another
tear wobble on her eyelashes. Weddings were so difficult.

While the priest welcomed the congregation, Cara hoped
Vida understood that being a bridesmaid wasn't her thing.
She'd been terrified she'd have to wear the requisite
horrible pink/peach/baby blue satin dress that'd make her
look like something that had just come back from the
upholsterer's.
Vida's best friend, Katherine, didn't look like the sort of
woman who'd take kindly to being jammed in a pink frilly
thing, so maybe that was why she was wearing a very
unbridesmaidy suit. Cara was pretty sure that if she'd said yes to her stepmother-to-be's request, she'd have been
looking ugly in pink.
Or maybe not. Ewan thought she always looked beautiful
so perhaps she could have worn a bridesmaid's dress
without looking too hideous.
Ewan . . . Just thinking about him sent a pleasurable
shiver down Cara's spine. What an incredible week it had
been. They'd spent every evening together: going out to
dinner in a tiny Italian restaurant, going to the cinema to
watch the latest Spielberg movie, and sitting in a quaint
little pub laughing and talking nineteen to the dozen over
far too many bottles of Beck's afterwards.
And then there'd been the lovemaking. They'd gone to
Ewan's place the first couple of evenings and once inside
the door had fallen on each other hungrily, barely waiting
to take their clothes off before making love, frantically and
passionately. Afterwards they'd sit half-dressed and watch
TV and sip coffee before turning to each other again, limbs
entwined, as they made love at a more leisurely pace.
Cara would have loved to have stayed with Ewan each
night and he asked her to, but she didn't want to stagger
into work in borrowed clothes again so he dropped her
home every time, sitting in the steamed up car outside her
flat for at least half an hour as they said their goodbyes.
She'd taken him to her place on Thursday, after a
mammoth cleaning up session that morning when she'd
hoovered and tidied her room in an attempt to get rid of at
least three months' worth of dust and unwashed socks
lurking under the bed.
Phoebe had been out so Ewan and Cara had had the
place to themselves. They'd cuddled up on the old sofa and
had a couple of Cara's beloved Mars Bar ice creams before
retreating to the dust-free bedroom and losing themselves
in hours of blissful pleasure.
On Friday night, Ewan had to visit his mother who was
still devastated over the death of her one-time lover, so
Cara had to go home on her own for the first time in a
week.
She'd felt empty and lonely as she sat in the silent flat,
flicking channels listlessly and wishing she'd gone out for
that drink with Zoe. She missed Ewan, she realised, missed
his arms around her and missed his good-humoured
teasing.
When he'd phoned late that night, missing her just as
much as she was missing him, it made up for being on her
own.
'I wish you were coming to the wedding,' she said,
cradling the phone as if it was a part of him she was
caressing. 'I should have asked Vida if I could bring you.
She wouldn't mind.'
'It's a bit short notice,' Ewan said easily. 'They probably
have the numbers worked out and another guest would
screw things up for them.'
'Another guest would make it perfect for me,' breathed
Cara, 'if the guest was you.'
But Ewan was playing football on Saturday, she hadn't
mentioned him to Vida and she was going to have to
endure an entire twenty-four hours without him.
Sighing, she wondered if anyone could see the glow on
her face, what Phoebe called her 'Sugar, I got me a man!'
glow? Evie hadn't, that was for sure. Cara had been dying
to tell her sister that she'd just found the most incredible
man in the world but after ten seconds in Evie's company
that morning, it had been clear that her sister was still in
the throes of her anti-Vida syndrome.
There was no point talking to her when she was like
that, Cara decided, irritated. She'd never seen Evie behave
so badly in all her life. Usually, Evie was a rock of good sense, too damn' sensible in fact. But their father's marriage
had rocked her like an earthquake and now Evie was
behaving like a spoilt child denied that extra chocolate.
Cara knew she ought to make things up with her sister
but she was fed up with Evie's childishness - and too
engrossed in thinking about her beloved Ewan to bother.
Evie was a grown up after all, let her deal with it.

Olivia watched her daughter standing at the altar, her mind
far away on this morning's row. Everything had started out
so well. She'd brought Stephen breakfast in bed: coffee,
orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast and the newspaper.
Sasha had been scampering in and out of the room in her
Winnie the Pooh pyjamas, trying on the artificial floral
head-dress Olivia had bought to get her used to the real
thing, a delicate wreath of real rosebuds.
Bright sunlight filtered in through the window, casting
pools of glorious light on the crisp white bedclothes and
shining on the carefully polished dark dressing table where
no clutter was allowed. As Stephen sat in state, eating his
breakfast, Olivia perched on the side of the bed, sipping
coffee and kissing Sasha each time her daughter rushed in.
'Aren't you eating?' Stephen asked finally, mouth full of
scrambled egg.
Olivia shook her head, smiling at him. She didn't want
to tell him her appetite had disappeared so that forcing a
piece of toast down her throat felt like Chinese water
torture.
'You must have something.' Stephen looked mulish.
'I had some fruit,' lied Olivia.
Her husband harumphed, letting her know that in his
august opinion fruit was no substitute for a proper breakfast.
'I suppose you're dieting? I don't know why, you're
too thin already.'
Olivia bit her lip and said nothing.
Half an hour later, she stood in the shower stall and let
the steaming water flood over her face and hair, revelling
in the solitude and the blissful warmth of the water. She
loved the shower, loved the aquamarine mosaic tiles on the
walls and floor that made it feel like showering in a
Mediterranean villa.
'Olivia!' yelled Stephen, impatiently opening the bathroom
door and standing right beside the steaming shower.
'I can't find my blue shirt. Where is it?'
Knowing exactly where the shirt was -- in the washing
machine half-way through the cotton cycle - Olivia felt
that familiar wrenching feeling in her gut. 'Give me a
minute, darling,' she stammered, thinking that if she finished
the wash cycle early and stuck the shirt in the dryer,
it'd be ready in thirty minutes.
This didn't suit Stephen.
'Christ! Didn't you know I wanted to wear that shirt
with my good suit?'
No, I didn't, Olivia wanted to say. I'm not psychic. I
wash and iron all your stuff on the off-chance you might
feel like wearing some of it. I never know exactly which
suit you feel like wearing on a particular day. Instead, she
grimaced meekly and apologised again.
Stephen had been irate after that and Olivia knew there
wasn't a snowball's chance in hell he'd be civil during the
wedding. She mentally tried to work out which guest she
could beg Vida to put him beside so he wouldn't be bored.
Vida would understand, she thought blindly. Vida
wouldn't mind upsetting her carefully worked out seating
plan if it came to making sure Stephen didn't throw a
tantrum during the day.
She and Sasha got ready silently, the joy of dressing her
daughter in the fairy-tale flower-girl dress diminished by the icy mood in the apartment. The sunlight streaming in
at the windows felt wintry now and Olivia shivered in her
thin dressing gown, goosebumps all over her too-slender
body. Stephen certainly knew how to create an atmosphere,
she reflected as she tried to smile gamely at Sasha.
She knelt on the floor and did up the tiny covered buttons.
'We're going to have a lovely day,' she chanted, 'lovely,
lovely day.' The little girl knew better.
'It'll be all right, Mummy,' she whispered. 'I asked Santa
to make it better.'
It was all Olivia could do to stop herself breaking into
hysterical sobs. Poor little Sasha. In her innocence, she'd
asked the most powerful person she could think of to fix
things, not realising that it'd take more than a cuddly old
man in a red suit to make things better between her
parents.
'Sasha,' she said quietly, so Stephen wouldn't overhear,
'there's nothing to make better. Mummies and daddies
have fights sometimes, that's all.'
The little girl regarded Olivia for a moment from serious
silver-grey eyes.
'Scary fights?' she asked.
Her mother hesitated. How could she say, 'Yes, scary
fights,' when she knew that lots of people didn't have
arguments the way she and Stephen did: vicious and bitter
comments from him, cowardly silences from her. Fights
that must be utterly terrifying to a child. She didn't want
to lie to Sasha but how could she tell her the truth? Four
year olds shouldn't hear stuff like that.
'Yes, scary fights because daddies get tired from working
and having lots of things to worry about . . .' Sasha was still
gazing at her with those big eyes but Olivia ploughed on.
'And they're not really scary because we know that Daddy
loves us and doesn't mean it, don't we?'
Sasha didn't look convinced. I'll have to learn how to be
a better liar, Olivia thought anxiously. And then an idea
sparked in her head, like lightning hitting a church spire,
frightening and fierce. Why should she learn how to lie?
Why lie at all? Surely, if she and Stephen didn't have the
sort, of relationship where Sasha could live without fear,
then they shouldn't be together. It was that simple.
Like the church spire after the lightning strike, Olivia's
mind remained white hot with her own astonishing idea.
Her thoughts raced, frantic and turbulent, as the notion
stuck in her head. Why stay with somebody who made you
so miserable and who was clearly so miserable with you?
And why stay when the daughter you adored was driven to
asking a mythical Christmas figure for help when her
father lost his temper and vented his all-too-frequent rage?
The solution was clear. It was simplicity itself.
'Olivia!' roared Stephen and, as if scared that he could
see into her mind and discover the forbidden thoughts
lurking there, she got up nervously and ran to the door.
'Yes!'
'You're not wearing that to the wedding, surely?'
That was the simple navy trouser suit she'd decided to
wear with a cream silk knit top underneath. It was very
plain but that was partly why she'd chosen it: she didn't
want to upstage Vida, and anyway, the way Olivia felt, she wanted to blend into the furniture.
'You'll look like a little mouse. It's too boring, far too
dull,' sniped Stephen, holding the suit at arm's length and
looking at it as if it was infectious. 'Wear your white wool
dress with the black jacket. You've never worn it and it
cost me a fortune in London.'
Starkly geometric and quite startling, the outfit would
make her stand out in the crowd as plainly as if she had a
halo of flashing lights over her head screeching 'Bought At Great Expense in Harvey Nichols'. The dress was short and
showed off far too much of her legs, and it was white, for
Godsake! You couldn't wear white to a wedding, it was
unfair to the bride.
'Stephen,' she started. 'I don't really want to wear
that . . .'
But he didn't let her finish. Utterly used to getting his
own way, it never occurred to Stephen MacKenzie that his
wife might not want to wear his choice in clothes.
'Olivia, wear it. You haven't a clue, have you?'
He turned on his heel, convinced that the matter was
now over. Olivia would do what he'd asked - she always
did. It was that dismissive action that decided her. The
simple 'the conversation is over' gesture that sent Olivia
hurtling over the edge.
Under normal circumstances - normal, placateStephen-at-all-costs
circumstances - she would have
smiled sweetly at him, done what he wanted and said
nothing. Like she'd done on myriad occasions before
when Stephen screamed at her because the tea tasted
funny or she'd bought the orange juice he didn't like or,
worst of all, when she'd got his car repaired at the wrong
garage while he'd been away.
But on the morning of Andrew Fraser's wedding, when
she was doing her best to keep her husband in a good
mood so he wouldn't get too bored during the day,
something snapped inside Olivia MacKenzie. Maybe it was
thinking about Cheryl Dennis's latest exploit which had
involved joking loudly and throwing paper aeroplanes
throughout a whole double period, blatantly ignoring
Olivia's attempts to quieten her down. Maybe it was
because she was worn out with misery and her blood sugar
level was non-existent because she couldn't eat. Or maybe
she'd simply had enough of her domineering husband.
She slammed the door shut so that Sasha wouldn't hear
and faced him, eyes blazing.
'Are you ever going to stop telling me what to do,
Stephen, or are we going to live like this for the rest of our
lives - you shouting at me at the very end because I died in
the wrong place, at the wrong time, and it didn't fit in with
your plans?'
He almost gasped with shock. For one brief triumphant
moment Olivia saw astonishment mixed with bewilderment
on his face. His dark eyes were wide open, the same
as his mouth.
She was breathing heavily, stunned that she'd said anything
but unable to stop, the momentum pushing her on.
'I'm sick of it, Stephen! Sick of you treating me like
some cretinous child who can't make up its mind about
anything! You think I'm an idiot. Well, I'm not!'
He recovered with dizzying aplomb, taking her victory
and shattering it.
'My God, Olivia, you're turning into your mother,' he
said, lips curled in disgust. 'Hysterical and ranting, like
some crazed banshee. I never thought I'd see the day.
You're not fit to be a mother to Sasha. Do you want to
destroy her the way your mother destroyed you with these
ridiculous tantrums?'
Olivia stared at him, devastated. She wasn't anything
like her mother, was she? And she wasn't hurting Sasha.
She loved her daughter, adored her. She'd never do anything
to hurt Sasha.
Stephen wasn't finished.
'I don't know what you're hoping to achieve with this
behaviour, Olivia,' he said, his voice vicious. 'I only want
the best for you but you're determined to twist everything
I say into something negative. Maybe it runs in your family.
Your mother can't open her mouth without savaging someone and you've gone the same way.'
She crumpled. Unused to voicing any opinion these
days, she was utterly unaccustomed to being angry with
Stephen. She'd wanted to say something for so long but
because the mirror never answered back when she practised
her rage on it, she'd totally forgotten that he could
respond, that she wouldn't be speaking in a vacuum.
And Stephen was responding. When he was angry, his
ice-cold rage had the power to cut through anyone. It
ripped through Olivia's soft centre like a rapier slashing
through feather pillows.
'I didn't mean . . .' she said hoarsely, wanting to say that
she was merely standing her ground about what to wear to
the damn' wedding.
He didn't want to hear. 'I know exactly what you meant,
Olivia,' he said coldly. 'Wear what you want. You de Veres
always do what you want anyway.'
He slammed the door behind him and she sank on to
the bed, too stunned to cry. Was she turning into her
mother? It was her greatest fear, to become like the vicious
and cruel woman she'd had to fight hard to love.
You were supposed to love your mother, but it was just
so hard sometimes. She tried to be different, tried to be
soft and gentle instead of unyielding and selfish like Sybil.
Perhaps she was kidding herself that she was soft.
Perhaps she was really a bitch, a stupid bitch who'd end up
lonely and unloved, having turned her only daughter and
her husband away from her.
Shaken to the core, Olivia sat white-faced, one hand
nervously scratching at the unmade bed, bringing up little
bobbles on the sheet.
After ten minutes, she knew she had to move. She could
hear Stephen pottering about inside, could almost feel the
white hot rage he'd been in. What had she done? Why had
she said anything? Her outburst hadn't solved anything; it
had only made matters worse. Now Stephen would be in a
total fury all day.
Olivia's head throbbed at the thought of an entire day
like this. How would she cope?
The solution came to her - the tablets Stephen had been
given for his back. Valium. The doctor recommended both
a muscle relaxant and a painkiller when Stephen's back
went into its rare but agonising spasm. He'd never taken
any of the valium, of course, preferring to suffer, and not in
silence, either.
The little container was still in his part of the bathroom
cabinet, full to the brim. She took one and peered at it.
Five mg. Washing the tiny tablet down with a splash of
water from the cold tap, she was about to put the
container back but thought better of it. She took another
two tablets for later. Better safe than sorry.
Now, vaguely anaesthetised, Olivia sat beside the surly
figure of her husband and listened to the priest going on
about the holy state of marriage.
She closed her eyes and tried to tune his voice out. She'd
rather not think about the state of her own marriage and,
she thought caustically, he was hardly speaking from
experience, was he? What the hell did he know about
family rows and bitter arguments between man and wife?
If he'd ever been married or in a relationship with someone
as difficult as Stephen, perhaps he wouldn't be quite
so keen to discuss love in that general, rose-coloured
glasses way.
Ahead of her sat Evie, a small upright figure in blue,
unmoving as a marble statue while her father got married.
Olivia wondered idly what it would be like to give a
fiddler's toss about your parents marrying again. Although
at 'east if her parents stayed married to each other, they wouldn't have the chance to make two other people
deeply unhappy as well.
Evie had taken Andrew's remarriage badly at first
although she was coming round.
'We're going to have a wonderful day,' she had said
firmly on the phone the night before when Olivia had
rung to see how her friend was bearing up. 'I won't let you
down, Livvy. I promise not to scream and roar,' she'd
joked. 'Honest! If I can dance in those perilous shoes
you've lent me, I'll dance away like a mad thing and show
Dad I'm delighted for him.'
'I'm so glad,' Olivia said with relief. 'You'd hate yourself
afterwards if you didn't. It's going to be a lovely wedding
and Sasha is terribly excited about being a flower girl.
She's in bed now, quivering with excitement at the
thought of wearing a princess dress and having flowers in
her hair!'
Nothing had worked out quite as planned, though.
Sasha was subdued after the row between her parents,
while Cara and Evie were sitting as far apart on the
church pew as was possible, a sure sign of trouble. Olivia could never quite figure out what had ruined their once
incredibly close relationship. They'd been best friends for
so long, more like mother and daughter than two sisters.
It was sad that they were feuding. Olivia would have
done anything to have a sister of her own, someone who
could share her horrible childhood. Someone who could
have diluted the alcoholic misery of the Lodge when she
was growing up.
In her mind, once you actually had a sister, you had to
appreciate her. Under the benevolent haze of the valium
she'd taken an hour and a half previously, Olivia decided to
sort out Evie and Cara. She'd do something wonderful for
other people, even though her own life was a disaster.
'Daddy, Daddy, are we nearly there?' asked Sasha plaintively,
looking out of the window and ignoring the glorious
countryside Olivia was admiring.
'Ask your mother,' he snapped. 'She knows everything.'
Olivia didn't even flinch.
Yes, darling,' she said calmly. 'Another few minutes and
the photographer will be taking lots of lovely photos of
you in your princess dress.'
With Auntie Vida and Uncle Andrew?' asked Sasha,
brightening up.
Yes.'
They pulled up outside Kilkea Castle and Stephen was
out of the car and rummaging around in the boot before
Olivia had time to take off her seat belt. Charming, she
thought. He can't bear to spend two minutes more than
necessary with me. She wondered whether his icy demeanour
would last till bedtime. In her experience, his desire
nearly always overcame whatever sulk he was in.
Stephen actually believed that an energetic sex session
could make it up to Olivia when he'd been rude or sharp
with her. He'd never quite grasped the concept that sex in
itself wasn't an apology.
As far as Olivia was concerned, you might have decent
lovemaking after the apology, but you never had anything
but one partner tearfully on the verge of breaking down if
you had sex without the 'I'm sorry, darling, I do love you,
honest.'
Because of that, she'd gone through far too many
staring-up-at-the-ceiling-trying-not-to-cry nights. No, she
decided tranquilly, Stephen would never last the night in a
glamorous four-star hotel without wanting to make full use
of the facilities. Tonight, she thought with a small smile,
she didn't think she'd be in the mood.
Cousin Fidelma was wedged into the passenger seat of
Evie's car and no amount of pulling could get her out. The
combination of Fidelma's unsupple seventeen-stone-plus
body and a wonky right leg that couldn't bend meant she
was imprisoned by the dashboard of the small car.
'I should have put you in the taxi with Al and Elizabeth,'
Evie said anxiously, wondering how she was ever going to
lever Fidelma out. It had been difficult enough getting her in. That in itself should have set alarm bells ringing but
Fidelma had been adamant about travelling with Evie 'so
we can catch up on all the gossip'.
They hadn't caught up on very much because Fidelma,
who was on tablets for the pain in her leg, had dropped off
immediately they drove out of the church car park, leaving
Evie to fume in indignant silence about how Cara and
Rosie had both conveniently jumped ship and gone off in a
rackety old Volvo with the great-aunts, cigarette smoke
and laughter bellowing out the windows as it shuddered
off.
As soon as I get there, Evie thought crossly, I'm having
the biggest glass of champagne I can get my hands on.
Stuck at the back of a convoy of big, expensive cars en
route to the hotel, she got crosser still.
'Vulgar gas-guzzlers,' she muttered as a great big tank of
a German car swerved dangerously in front of her to avoid
hitting a poor cyclist. 'That thing is a threat to the
environment!'
'I'm sorry, Evie,' said Fidelma piteously from the depths
of the front seat, bringing her firmly back to reality.
'No, don't be,' said Evie, immediately contrite. 'We'll get
you out of there in a trice. Just wait.'
Fidelma's sweet rounded face relaxed a fraction. Around
seven years older than Andrew Fraser, she somehow looked
years younger thanks to her moon face which didn't have a
wrinkle in sight.
Only the floral print two-piece and matching turban
squashed on her grey curls gave a hint that Fidelma
wouldn't see seventy again. But when she spoke, her sweet
little-girl voice made her appear like a child in a grownup's
body.
'I'm terribly sorry,' she said again meekly.
Evie sensed that if it took much longer, Fidelma would
begin to panic. It was time for speedy action. She looked
around the hotel car park blindly. As most people had
arrived before she did, abandoning cars at frantic, haphazard
angles in order to get at the free champagne before it
was all gone, the car park was now empty of any member
of the wedding party. Evie didn't want to leave Fidelma on
her own but she needed to get some help.
A smooth clicking noise from the car parked nearest to
her caught Evie's attention.
Sleek, black and very expensive-looking, the car
reminded her briefly of the one Richard Gere had driven
in Pretty Woman, one of Evie's favourite films. In her
dreams, she'd been the beautiful young Julia Roberts many
times, desperately in love and hoping for the fairy tale.
A low-slung door opened and a man stepped out. He
wasn't Richard Gere, Evie thought, startled, he was better.
Tall, darker than your average Irishman, and with his shock
of jet black hair sleeked loosely back from a tanned,
strong-boned face, he was devastatingly attractive.
Then he smiled at her, a broad, amused smile that
opened up his bronzed face and displayed a flash of very
white teeth.
For a moment, she could only stare. With those big solid
shoulders and long, long legs, he looked like every romantic,
bodice-ripping hero she'd ever read about, except that he wasn't quite as lantern-jawed as the he-men oil painted
beautifully on the covers of Davina's Desires or The Jade Princess.
He was real flesh and blood instead of one-dimensional
paint. He wore what was obviously a very continental suit,
something grey with a sheen to it. A buttoned-up shirt but no tie. And he was coming over to her and Fidelma.
Evie gulped and moved closer to her car, instinctively
smoothing down her skirt which had got wrinkled during
the drive. Had her lipstick all gone? Was her hair all right?
Would he notice if she bent down to check how she
looked in the mirror . . .
'I think you may need some assistance?' he said. He
loomed over her, dwarfing her with his size and sheer
presence.
Up close, Evie could see that his eyes were the deepest
blue imaginable with long dark lashes, almost like a girl's.
They were the only feminine thing about him. Otherwise,
he was all male. All six foot something of handsome,
healthy masculinity.
The heroine of Davina's Desires would have known
what to say to such a creature, Evie thought blindly,
something provocative or intriguing. She just gawped at
him.
'Do you need help?' he asked again.
His voice was rich and dark, like finely aged whiskey
rippling over gravel. Not Irish but she couldn't put her
finger on the accent. She refocused, aware he was watching
her with the faintest glimmer of a smile. God, he was
waiting for her to answer!
'Er . . . well, yes,' she said blankly. 'We do have a bit of a
problem.' With an expressive flick of her eyes, she tried to
let him see what the problem was without actually saying
anything in order to save poor Fidelma's blushes.
He took in the situation instantly.
'You know, modern cars don't have much room in
them,' added Evie, for Fidelma's benefit.
'I agree,' he said, amusement glinting in his eyes. As if a
man with a state-of-the-art sports car wasn't quite aware
that Evie's battered Ford Fiesta was at least ten years old.
'People were always getting stuck in this model, I
believe,' he lied gently, as he leaned into the car and took
Fidelma's arm. 'I heard they recalled quite a few of them
to the factory.'
Did they?' she asked with relief.
How kind of him, thought Evie. What a lovely man.
If I support you like this,' he was saying to Fidelma,
'then we can get you out.'
For thirty seconds, Evie looked on worriedly as the big
man carefully helped Fidelma to freedom, lifting her not
insubstantial upper body with ease. He chatted comfortingly
to her all the time, nonsense about car companies and
how they forget that modern ladies like a bit of leg room.
Finally, they managed it and Evie's elderly relative got to
her" feet and grabbed her rescuer's hands in gratitude.
Thank you so much,' she tittered. 'I don't know what
I'd have done if you hadn't come along, my dear.'
Evie looked at Fidelma in amazement. She was actually
red in the face, blushing like a shy seventeen year old
under the stranger's gaze. How astonishing.
'I'm glad I could help,' he said, turning to Evie and
taking her hand in his.
To her own shame and amazement, she could feel
herself flush up like a ripe peach. It was the way he was
looking at her, she thought, an undress-you-with-his-eyes
look.
She snatched her hand back.
'Thank you,' she said crisply, determined to reassert her dignity. Yes, he'd come to their rescue but now she was
finished with him, he needn't hang around like the conquering
hero whose next question was going to be: 'Would
you have a drink with me, ladies?'
No way, Jose.
The dark eyebrows rose a fraction at her abruptness and
Evie could imagine them sitting low over his eyes in anger
or rising in amusement at will.
'I don't suppose I could buy you ladies a drink to get you
both over your ordeal?' he asked, directing the question at
Evie.
'Ooh, yes, we'd love that! Wouldn't we, Evie?' squealed
Fidelma girlishly.
Evie shot her relative a quelling glance but it had no
effect. Fidelma was gazing at the man in rapt delight.
'It might do you good to have a brandy to settle your
nerves after your ordeal,' he said to her, 'before you go into
the wedding.'
Fidelma blossomed like a Georgette Heyer heroine
asked to a ball by a previously girl-hating marquis.
'How do you know we're going to a wedding?'
demanded Evie suspiciously, for once feeling much more
hard-eyed female private eye than frilly Regency heroine.
'I'm going to it and I'm sure you ladies are, too, because
you're both so beautifully dressed,' he replied in that
cultured, deep voice.
Evie hadn't known that Fidelma could giggle but she
did.
'Oh, go away out of that, young man,' she cooed
girlishly, hitting him a whack on the arm with her handbag.
He
grinned, the combination of white teeth and tanned
skin making him appear positively wolfish. He was
dangerous-looking, Evie decided with an exquisite little
shiver, sophistication and elegance wrapped around a
rogue in Italian wool. She wasn't sure if her rapidly
increasing pulse was because she liked him or not.
'Forgive my rudeness,' he apologised. 'How can you go
for a drink with someone you don't know? I'm Max
Stewart.'
'Fidelma Burke,' said Fidelma quickly, 'and this is Evie
Fraser.'
'Nice to meet you both. May I call you Fidelma or is it
Mrs Burke?' he inquired.
'Fidelma will do for me and Evie doesn't stand on
ceremony either,' replied Fidelma coquettishly.
Evie looked around to see if a Mr? Stewart was going to
emerge from the black sports car, all gazelle-like limbs,
sleek South of France blonde hair, gold jewellery like cow
chains and wearing something with Dior on the label. That
was the sort of woman a man like Max would be married
to surely.
'I came on my own,' he said gravely, as if he'd noticed
her surreptitiously wife-spotting. 'So I'd love two elegant
ladies on my arm.'
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than
Fidelma was glued to him like a limpet. Evie wondered
what had come over her. It must be those tablets.
'Evie?'
She'd been about to smile and walk in by herself but
there was something about the way he said her name that
stopped her.
His blue eyes were serious now, as if he really wanted
her to have a drink with him. It was flattering to have this
debonair man looking at her in that warm, frankly admiring
manner. It certainly made a welcome change from
Rosie and Cara's earlier defection. Here at least was one
person who obviously didn't think she was boring, grumpy and best left to entertain elderly, drugged-up-to-the
eyeballs relatives.
'Please?'
Sensible, circumspect and outwardly proper, Evie Fraser
found that she couldn't resist, even though she felt she
should. There was something quite dangerous about Max
Stewart. Dangerous, unpredictable and yet vastly exciting.
Nothing like Simon, she thought, immediately hating
herself for being disloyal.
But he was miles away, detained by some boring meeting
he'd refused to miss because it was: 'With the directors,
Evie, and I couldn't let them down, you know that.' He'd
prefer to let her down by arriving at the wedding after the
ceremony and the meal.
Well, what Simon didn't know about couldn't hurt him,
could it? It was only a drink after all. What harm could
there be in that?
'Yes, I'd like that,' she found herself saying.
Max took her arm and Evie felt a thrill of excitement
shoot up from her elbow as all the tiny hairs on her arm
stood up straight.
He was so big, he made her feel like a little sprite of a
thing, a tiny, fragile creature instead of a woman constantly
warding off a garage full of spare tyres. God, she wished
somebody could see her now, Evie Fraser being escorted by
this incredible guy.
Inside the hotel, she barely noticed the elegantly vaulted
ceiling, the suits of armour or the rich medieval pennants
hanging from stone walls. All she was aware of was Max
Stewart standing close to her. He was talking to Fidelma,
making her giggle. But Evie still felt utterly conscious of his
every movement. She wanted to watch him, to see his
head thrown back laughing at something silly Fidelma had
said, to see the lines around his glittering eyes when he
smiled. It was exhilarating just being close to him but she
was too excited to work out why or worry about it.
Enjoying the moment was the most important thing; Evie
couldn't think of anything else. It was dizzying and scary
all at the same time.
I think we need a drink in the bar so you can relax
before facing the wedding party and put on your lipstick in
privacy,' he was saying to Fidelma.
Wonderful,' breathed Fidelma, who, to the best of
Evie's knowledge, rarely drank and never wore any cosmetics
apart from a dusting of the baby pink Max Factor
powder she'd had for decades.
Max steered them into the bar which was a wedding
free zone because the champagne frenzy was in another
part of the hotel.
Settling Fidelma comfortably in a deep chair in front of
a massive stone fireplace you could roast a boar in, Max sat
down beside her and pulled his chair marginally closer to
the one Evie had chosen. After the chill of the day, the fire warmed their bones beautifully.
Evie instinctively stretched out her legs in their unaccustomed
gossamer-thin seven deniers to warm them, before
she suddenly realised she was actually displaying her
horrible calves instead of keeping them hidden as per
usual. Whipping them back under her chair, she peered up
at Max to see if he'd noticed.
He didn't seem to have done. He was asking Fidelma
what she wanted to drink.
'A Harvey Wallbanger,' she said with enthusiasm.
Evie's eyebrows shot up in alarm.
'No,' Fidelma added thoughtfully, changing her mind. 'A
Long Island Iced Tea. Or maybe a Singapore Sling . . .'
Fidelma,' interrupted Evie, hoping to intervene before
the other woman ran out of decent cocktails and got to the Sex on the Beach variety, 'don't forget you're on ... er ... painkillers,' she emphasised.
'A Banana Daiquiri!' announced Fidelma happily. 'I had
one of those the night I nearly got engaged.'
Max caught Evie's eye and they both grinned.
'Perhaps a restorative brandy or a glass of white wine,'
he suggested. 'Because,' he murmured for Evie's ears alone,
'I'm not asking the barman for a Vestal Virgin or a Long
Sloe Comfortable Screw ..."
She had to stuff a sleeve into her mouth to stop herself
collapsing into laughter and then felt her heart thud at the
way Max looked so very pleased with himself for making
her laugh.
They sipped chilled white wine and Evie watched in
astonishment as Max gently drew Fidelma out of herself,
getting her to talk about the risque cocktails she and her
pals had drunk as dizzy teenage girls.
'Movie stars drank cocktails and champagne then,'
Fidelma said, misty-eyed as her mind travelled back nearly
fifty years. 'We wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be
Katharine Hepburn and my best friend wanted to be Jane Russell. Not that she had the . . . you know, embonpoint,'
she added discreetly with a glance at her own considerable
bosom.
After Fidelma's reminiscences of watching The African
Queen in a tiny fleapit in Limerick with a young man who
was too scared of her father's prowess with a shotgun to
hold her hand, she playfully asked Max who his heroes
were.
'I wanted to be Sean Connery,' he said ruefully, sitting
back in his chair. 'My father took me to see Thunderball when I was ten or eleven and I had never seen anything
like it in my life. I wanted to be a spy, to be supercool,
when in reality I was this skinny beanpole of a kid who
couldn't walk two steps without tripping over my feet!'
Evie laughed, not able to imagine this suave man ever
being a grubby ten year old.
'What about you, Evie?'
She remembered being in love with Harrison Ford in Star Wars and longing to be Carrie Fisher as Princess Leia,
ever if it did mean having to wear her hair in those
ridiculous ear-muff plaits. And she'd never forget herself
and Olivia admiring Goldie Hawn's picture in one of her
mother's glossy magazines. At least Olivia had had rippling
blonde hair and some hope of looking kookily sexy like
Goldie, when with her mousy rat's tails, Evie hadn't a hope
in hell.
'Go on, tell us. Or are you embarrassed to admit to
being a sweet eleven year old dreaming about wearing
Olivia Newton-John's gear and snogging John Travolta.'
It was Evie's turn to laugh. She'd been seventeen when Grease came out, not eleven.
'You are a rogue, Max,' she admonished, waggling a
finger at him. 'As if I look thirty! What's your game?'
He pretended to look shocked. 'You mean you're
younger than thirty? Forgive me.'
This time she slapped his knee, an instinctively familiar
gesture.
I'm older than thirty, you lunatic. As if you didn't know.'
In reply, he gave her a heavy-lidded look that was meant
for her alone. A dark look that sent a bolt of excited
lightning through her belly. Terrified in case she went pink
again, Evie took a giant slug of her wine.
'I do believe he's flirting with you, Evie,' twittered
Fidelma, who had drained her glass and was now looking
happily tipsy.
'I'm flirting with both of you,' Max replied, giving Evie
another intense look.
Arch looks were not Evie's thing. She'd long realised
that a snub nose and rosy cheeks meant her chances of
looking wryly amused and sophisticated at the same time
were nil. But today, she thought, she'd managed it.
'You look very fierce when you do that,' Max remarked.
'Do I?' she asked, astonished. 'I didn't mean to. I was
trying to look . . .' She paused. She couldn't very well say
she was trying to look like a soignee heroine who was
trying to slap down an eager suitor. '. . . tougher, I was
trying to look a bit tougher, more autocratic,' she said,
suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to be brutally
honest. 'Not a pushover.'
Max laid one big hand softly on her arm. 'You're no
pushover, Evie Fraser,' he said, his voice truthful. 'But
you're not a hard-edged, autocratic woman either. Believe
me, I've had more experience of women like that than I
care to remember. You're warmhearted, funny and gentle.
That's why I'm sitting here with you.'
Evie almost couldn't breathe, her heart swelled so with
his compliments.
'Oh, I almost forgot,' Max added, wolf's teeth showing.
'You're one hell of an attractive woman too.'
The Jade Princess, Davina or any one of Evie's other
paper heroines would have said something clever or sexy
in return, something guaranteed to knock Max for six and
prompt him to produce red roses, champagne and an item
of jewellery that came with its own security guard.
Evie simply beamed at him. For the first time that day,
she felt really, truly happy.
'Was it Olivia Whatsit-John you liked?' demanded
Fidelma, who was trying to attract the barman's attention
by waggling her empty glass meaningfully in his
direction.
Max took pity on her and ordered another round of
white wine. 'But we'd better go up to the party soon,' he
warned, 'or the bride and groom will murder us.'
Evie momentarily wondered whether he was a guest of
he:- father's or Vida's but didn't want to break the mood by
asking. She was sick of those 'I'm his auntie's secondcousin-twice-removed'
conversations you regularly had at
weddings where everyone got headaches trying to place
everyone else in the complicated family tree. Her father
had a wide circle of friends and Max could be anyone.
She'd find out later. This spell was too magical to be
broken with formalities.
'I was never mad about Olivia Newton-John,' she
answered. 'Although I'd have killed for a figure like hers. I
still would,' she added as an afterthought, one hand patting
her waist.
'What do you mean?' Max said, brow furrowed as he
looked at her.
The heat of the fire had given her pale face a rosy flush
and had made the previously stiff curls drop into more
natural waves around her face. With her huge hazel eyes
animated as she talked, Evie's little face was as pretty as it
had ever been.
'Well,' she said, searching for the right way to explain it.
'Olivia's a real model girl, isn't she? Gorgeous.'
'And you're not, is that it?' he asked, still perplexed.
His expression said he genuinely couldn't imagine Evie's
no", being happy with the way she looked. As if it was
ludicrous that she had a problem with herself. After a
lifetime of feeling not-quite-right, Evie felt her world shift
on its axis. What if she didn't have anything to feel anxious
about, what if she was really gorgeous and she'd just been
locked in a cycle of hating herself all her life? What if it
was OK to be Evie Eraser, petite, curvy Twix bar fanatic
instead of a lanky celery fiend?
'Women fascinate me,' Max remarked, 'but I'd hate to
be one. There's so much to live up to. Men might want to be the top Grand Prix driver, yet they don't want to look like him.'
'I don't want to look like someone else,' protested Evie.
Well, she did actually. But she couldn't reveal that, no
matter how bizarrely open she was being with this complete
stranger. 'It's wanting to be looking you know . . .'
'Thinner?' supplied Max with a wry look.
'What's wrong with that?' said Evie hotly, hating to feel
that her entire personality had been reduced down to her
desire to be thin.
'Nothing,' he replied softly. 'Except that you don't need
to be thinner. You're wonderful the way you are. I saw you
hiding your legs earlier. You don't need to bother, believe
me.'
His eyes swept admiringly over her body, his practised
gaze making Evie feel as if he could expertly predict her
bra size and judge her waist span to within a centimetre.
'We'd better go up,' interrupted Fidelma mournfully.
'Andrew wouldn't like it if we spend the whole afternoon
here, even though I'm having such a ripping time.'
'You're right.' Evie gathered her reeling senses. It was
half-three in the afternoon and she was feeling as headily
drunk as if it was half-three a.m. 'They must have finished
taking the wedding photos by now,' she added, 'and we
don't want to be late for the meal.'
'I'm ravenous,' Fidelma said. 'I could kill for some soup.'
'We'll have to get something tasty for you to eat, my
dear,' Max said, helping her to her feet. 'Otherwise all
those wonderful cocktails I'm going to buy you later will
go straight to your head!'
Fidelma's delighted shriek of laughter could be heard
echoing all round the room.
Evie began to think about food too. It was a long time
since breakfast and since she was already thin and gorgeous,
she could eat what she wanted.
The three of them walked towards the ballroom slowly.
You're very kind to Fidelma,' Evie whispered. 'I really
appreciate it. You must have a raft of female relatives who
adore you. I bet you're the apple of your mother's eye,' she
added jokingly, thinking that she'd never met a man less
like a mummy's boy.
Well, my mother isn't the sort of woman who requires
looking after,' he remarked fondly. 'She's very independent.
After losing two husbands, you've got to be.'
Evie felt a flicker of suspicion in her gut. A premonition.
Her father had told her something about Vida's son, a
television producer. He'd been asked to the wedding but
had plans to be in Australia at that time and hadn't been
able to promise his disappointed mother anything.
.Max couldn't be ... No, he wasn't. . .
They had reached the ballroom and he pushed the
double doors open effortlessly.
Max, you made it! I'm so glad.' Vida's serene face was
wreathed in smiles as she ran gracefully across the room
and threw her arms out to embrace Max. He enveloped
her in a bear hug, careful not to mess up the sleek
honey-blonde hair, before holding her at arm's length and
admiring the elegant wedding outfit.
'Mother, you look beautiful,' he said affectionately. 'As
always.'
Evie felt her heart sink to the bottom of her stomach
like a concrete block. Max was Vida's son. Who knew what
he was really doing when he was chatting Evie up. Probably
trying to figure out how much trouble she'd be to his
beloved mummy who'd undoubtedly primed him on what
to do.
Why else would someone like him be interested in her?
Why else indeed. He was a sickeningly attractive man,
almost movie star material. Why would someone like him
bother even talking to her without an ulterior motive? And
as for all the bullshit about her being gorgeous and thin
enough without needing to worry . . . With a mother who
was so slender she looked like an en-Vogue model!
Rage flooded through Evie's body with the same ferocity
as excitement had earlier. That bastard! He'd been using
her, teasing her! She'd kill him.
Shooting Max's back a fierce scowl, she took Fidelma by
the arm and bustled her down the ballroom to a table
where Cara and Olivia sat, Sasha between them, slowly
dismantling a rosebud from her floral headdress.
'Can you believe it?' Evie squeaked, her face aflame.
'That bloody man was chatting us up and look who he is!
Just look!'
'What man? Who are you talking about?' asked Olivia,
wondering why Evie looked so distressed.
'He's lovely,' crooned Fidelma, sinking heavily into a
chair and immediately grabbing a spare glass of champagne.
'There he is.' She pointed. 'Max. If I was twenty
years younger,' she added with a sigh.
Cara and Olivia followed her gesture and stared.
'Oooh, baby, he's a fine thing,' said Cara, taking in the
tall, striking figure at the far end of the room. Even at
this distance, she could see he was pretty damn' gorgeous.
Too old for her but still fine. Great body, great face.
'What a hunk! He was chatting you up, Evie?' she asked
incredulously.
'Yes,' wailed Evie. 'And you needn't sound so astonished,'
she added indignantly. 'I'm not quite at the paper
bag over my head stage, you know. You just wouldn't
believe who he is.'
A movie star visiting "Oirland" to research a role?'
suggested Olivia.
He could certainly be a movie star,' Cara said enthusiastically.
'He'd give George Clooney a run for his
money.'
No,' Evie said in exasperation. 'He was chatting me up
and never told me he was Vida's bloody son, that's who. Villa's son! I bet she put him up to it for some reason,' she
added dramatically.
Both Cara and Olivia turned to look at her.
Evie,' Olivia started, wanting to be gentle, 'Vida would
hardly get her son to chat you up on the off chance it'd
benefit her.'
Cara, who wasn't as sensitive as Olivia, put it differently.
'Evie, will you stop with the conspiracy theories. You're
worse than Oliver Stone. Exactly how would it help Vida
to make her son flirt with you?'
'To ... to ... embarrass me by forcing me to flirt back!'
said Evie fiercely, thinking of how she'd responded to
Max's dalliance. She'd fluttered her eyelashes, simpered
like a bloody schoolgirl. She'd even touched his knee. How
awful. What must he think of her? Well, she knew what
she thought of him. He was just a dirty double crosser to
make her fancy him. And she did fancy him, she realised,
feeling as deflated as a party balloon.
'Have a glass of champagne,' suggested Olivia kindly,
seeing Evie's sad little face.
Defiantly, she took the proffered glass and downed half
of it in one go, gasping and hiccuping as the bubbles
exploded on to the back of her throat.
'Evie,' said an awestruck Cara who'd never seen her
normally sedate sister whack back a drink like that before.
'What did he do to you?'
Eyes narrowed, Evie snarled: 'It's not what he did to me, it's what I'm going to do to him when I'm talking to him!
I'll rip off his . . .'
Her discussion on which part of Max Stewart's anatomy
she wanted to divest him of first was cut short by the best
man calling for order.
Boiling with rage, Evie had to watch Max sitting at the
table close to the bridal party reserved for Vida's guests.
To her embarrassment, he caught her looking at him. His
tanned face lit up with a big 'Where did you get to?' smile.
Evie flashed him a killer stare, perfected after years of
enduring builders' wolf whistles, and whipped her head
around as if her tablemates had just said something
thrilling, which was unlikely given who she was sitting
beside.
She was stuck between Olivia's father, Leslie, who was
already reeking of booze, and Aunt Al, because there
weren't enough men at their table for the traditional ratio.
Bloody Max, she raged inwardly. How dare he? She
hoped he wasn't looking at her. She was sure he was,
convinced of it. Well, he could look all he wanted. She
wasn't even going to glance in his direction again, never
mind actually talk to him. He could forget it.
Throughout a beautiful meal, Aunt Al whipped out
her cigarettes every time she'd finished a course, oblivious
to a stony-faced Evie who hated smoke blowing in
her face. To make matters worse, Al loved jokes, the
dirtier the better, and could relate filthy ones from her
collection of joke books for hours on end. Stephen
MacKenzie, sitting boot-faced across the table, wasn't
impressed as Al stage-whispered rude limericks to her
neighbour, Rosie. On the plus side, at least Leslie de Were
was sitting quietly beside Evie, mainly because he was
pickled from all the brandy and ports he'd consumed to
cope with his hangover.
Everyone, apart from Stephen, appeared to be having a
great time, Evie realised gloomily. Everyone except her.
Cara was chatting animatedly with Fidelma and Aunt
Elizabeth. Sybil de Were was listening in to Aunt Al's jokes
in between picking at her food.
Even Olivia looked happier than she usually did when
Stephen was in one of his moods. Her beautiful face was
serene, as if she wasn't aware that her husband was
glowering across the table at her volcanically. Evie wondered
why her friend looked so unconcerned. Normally
the very thought of Stephen in a temper gave Olivia
palpitations but today, even though he looked as if he was
about to go into orbit with temper, she was chatting
happily to Fidelma in between cuddling Sasha, who'd left
her place beside Vida to talk to her mother.
Olivia must have got high on the champagne, Evie
decided. Those bubbles really gave you a buzz. What a pity
she had been wasting her time with horrible Max drinking

Evie took a cautious glance in Max's direction. He
wasn't even looking at her, she realised crossly. His body
was angled towards his neighbour, a very attractive forty
something woman with a striking Cleopatra haircut and
sloe eyes to match. She was obviously his latest conquest.
Evie hated him at that moment. How could he have flirted
with her like that? How could she have let herself down by
responding?
Cleopatra said something funny and Max laughed, a rich
happy sound that made Evie narrow her eyes with jealousy.
Not that long ago, she'd been making him laugh. He'd
seemed enthralled by everything she'd said, gazing at her
as though she were the most fascinating creature on earth.
And now he was giving Ms Ancient Egypt the same
treatment. Cow. Evie'd bet a tenner she dyed her hair. And that heavy eyeliner was very aging. Up close, she probably
looked like she'd spent a month in a kiln.
Vaguely satisfied at the thought that her rival was
nothing more than a dried-up prune with a good wig, Evie
sat back in her seat and pretended to enjoy herself. It was
no use. She wasn't interested in Al's jokes and Leslie had
nothing to say for himself, apart from 'Red, please, fill my
glass up' every time a waiter cruised by with wine bottles.
The speeches began and, turning in her seat to face the
top table, Evie found she was in a perfect position to spy
on Max and his current squeeze. She didn't hear a word of
the speeches, even when her father's best man slipped up
and said, 'I'd really like to spank the matron of honour . . .
sorry! Thank the maid of honour.'
The room erupted into salacious laughter.
'What?' asked Evie, bewildered. 'What happened?'
'Fellow wants to spank the matron of honour,' Leslie de Were informed her with glee. 'Wouldn't mind meself. Bloody fine-looking woman, that.'
By the time her father started to make his speech, Evie had decided that the only way to get back at Max was to
flirt outrageously with some of the other guests. Some
devastatingly handsome single man who'd make Max pea
green with envy.
The only question was, with whom? Devastatingly handsome
single men were thin on the ground under normal
circumstances and after a quick recce of the room, Evie
couldn't immediately spot anyone who'd fit the bill. Apart
from Max, her father was the best-looking man around.
Stephen was certainly good-looking but even if he hadn't
been married to Olivia, he'd have been out of the question
too on the basis that he was a grumpy sod currently
looking as if he was undergoing painful colonic irrigation
under the tablecloth.
Evie's gaze landed on the Higgins family, owners of the Ballymoreen butcher's shop. They had an unfamiliar man
at their table; presentable, tall and wearing a decent suit.
He didn't appear to have anyone with him. He'd do.
Andrew Fraser's speech was winding down. 'Now we
have the perfect opportunity for our families to get to
know each other,' he said with a fond look in Evie's
direction.
He's got some chance of that, she thought grimly. She
wouldn't spit on Max Stewart if he was on fire, so she was
hardly likely to welcome him into the bosom of her family.
And as for Vida! She'd obviously put her son up to it.
What sort of woman would do that? A manipulative one,
that was for sure.
The speeches over, people drooped in their chairs
waiting for the next stage of the party. While musicians
began setting up in one corner of the room, Evie excused
herself.
In the loo, she stared at her tired, flushed face. How
could she have thought she looked pretty earlier? She
looked like a raddled old bag with stupid curls, worn-off
lipstick and a smudge of mascara like a Rorschach blot on
one cheek.
Leaning towards the mirror, she rubbed at it with a
finger.
'Isn't he a complete sweetie?' said a voice.
Evie straightened up when she saw who'd just pushed
into the room: Cleopatra accompanied by another woman.
'The way he looks at you . . . God!' she was saying
suggestively. 'You wouldn't kick him out of bed for getting
toast crumbs on the sheets, would you?'
The two of them screamed with licentious laughter,
oblivious to Evie.
Quietly, she rummaged in her handbag for her lipstick, trying to watch Cleopatra but not wanting to be caught
doing it.
Far from the oven-baked, wig-wearing harpy Evie had
hoped she'd be, Cleopatra was exotically attractive with
remarkably unlined skin for someone that particular shade
of mahogany. Evie had never seen anyone that tanned who
wasn't actually Indian but the cafe au lait colour looked
good on her.
Evie revised her original guess and put the other woman
in her late-thirties instead of early-forties.
'Since the divorce, I have been on the lookout,' Cleopatra
was saying. 'Max would fit the bill perfectly.'
'Judith, you're a howl,' said the friend. 'He seems
interested . . .'
Judith, huh? Evie swept out of the room into the
corridor and slap bang into Max.
'Why didn't you say who you were?' she blurted out
accusingly.
'Why should I have?' he asked in bemused tones.
'You knew who I was,' she stressed, 'but I had no idea
who you were.'
'What difference would that have made?' Max inquired.
She glared at him.
'The thing is, Evie,' he said, taking her arm to accompany
her back into the ballroom, 'when I realised you were
Andrew's daughter, I wanted you to like me for myself, not
because I was about to be your ..." he paused '. . .
stepbrother.'
'Stepbrother! You're not my stepbrother!' she said,
aghast.
'Actually, I'm afraid I am,' he pointed out mildly. 'And
my mother is now your stepmother, although I gather
you're not too wild about that idea either.'
Evie knew she was going pink. She was sick of her
traitorous skin giving her away like this.
'You don't approve of her so you don't approve of me, is
that it?' Max asked.
'That's not it,' she said hotly. 'I just don't like being made
a fool of
They were at the ballroom door now. His face was
serious as he looked down at her. 'I'd hardly consider
having a drink with you and chatting you up making a fool of you, Evie,' he said slowly. 'I thought we were getting on
very well. I was having a lovely time.'
She could feel the beginnings of a smile on her face
when Judith's strident tones could be heard from the
direction of the loos.
'Max darling, have they started dancing yet?' she called.
'I'm aching for a whirl around the floor.'
Even Max could hear Evie's sharp intake of breath.
'You're getting on even better with dear Judith, darling,' she said sweetly. 'She's husband-hunting after her divorce
apparently so I'll leave you to it.'
With that she was gone, determinedly tip-tapping into
the ballroom in Olivia's high shoes.
'Great legs,' said Max behind her.
Damn him, Evie fumed. Nothing fazed him.
Her father and Vida were dancing their first dance
while the band played 'Come Rain or Come Shine', a
gloriously melancholy saxophone riff rippling around the ballroom. People were smiling at the newly weds, everyone
happy for them. Evie stood to one side and watched.
They both looked so happy, so serene. She'd go and talk
to them after a while, tell Vida she looked beautiful and
remind her to make sure her father got his vitamin tablet
every morning.
When the song finished, he left Vida and walked
towards Evie.
'May I have this dance?' he asked, the small upturn at
the corners of his mouth belying his formality.
'Of course.'
A singer with a throaty cigarettes-and-whiskey voice was
belting out 'It Had To Be You' as Andrew and Evie took to
the floor. Other couples joined in, and at the far end of the
room she could see Max and Vida dancing together. Tall
and elegant, they moved gracefully. Evie watched them
wistfully.
She didn't know what had come over her, she'd been so
rude to Max. And just because he was Vida's son. It was
ridiculous really, childish. This behaviour had to stop.
Apologising to her father came first.
'I'm happy for you, Dad,' she said truthfully. 'I'm sorry I
took it so badly at first. I've been horrible to you and Vida.
I apologise.'
'You don't have to say anything,' Andrew replied. 'I
understand that it was hard for you. I knew it would be.
That's why I took the easy route out and didn't tell you I
was involved with her at first,' he revealed guiltily. 'I was
afraid you'd want me to end it before it began.'
Evie was mute for a moment. 'I'm so sorry, Dad,' she
gasped. 'I didn't know I was such a bitch you'd even dream
I'd do that. And then, when I heard, I saw red, couldn't
handle it. I never meant to hurt you.'
They were barely dancing now, just shuffling slowly
around the floor, oblivious to the music as they talked.
'You're not a bitch, Evie,' he said earnestly. 'You're good
and kind and I'm proud of all you've done in your life. But
I know how much you loved your mother, how you
idolised her. That's why I never got involved with anyone
else when you lived at home after Tony died. You'd gone
through so much and I knew you'd never cope, seeing me
with another woman.'
'Dad, that was so unfair of me, I'm sorry.' Evie said. She
was practically crying now. 'I never meant to ..."
'Shhh,' he comforted her. 'I know you didn't.' He put his
hand under her chin and turned her face up towards his.
'But you're happy for me now, aren't you?'
'Yes, Dad.' The words came out in a big sob. 'So happy.
Just forgive me for earlier, please?'
Andrew hugged her and, seeing that her face was
blotched with tears, escorted her off the dance floor to
their table. Vida immediately hurried over.
'Is everything all right?' she asked worriedly.
'Fine,' Andrew said.
With a reassuring smile, Vida was about to move away,
anxious not to intrude, but Evie caught her arm quickly.
'Don't go, Vida. I wanted to apologise for being so cold
to you, it wasn't fair. I want to wish you every happiness.'
The other woman's face was momentarily frozen, as if
she didn't quite believe what she was hearing. Then her
mouth curved, the smile reaching her eyes. She leaned
down and kissed her new stepdaughter on the cheek.
'Thank you, Evie. I appreciate that and I do know how
hard it has been for you.' She straightened up. 'I'd better
reclaim my son before he goes off
'You've got to meet Max, Vida's son,' Andrew said
eagerly.
'Yes, you must,' Vida echoed. 'You'll love him. He's so
funny.'
Bloody hilarious, she thought to herself. At least the pig
hadn't told his mother he'd already met Evie.
'And you've got to dance with him,' Vida added.
'Love to,' she said brightly. Just not yet. Not until she
had shown him how popular she was. Then she could be
magnanimous and frostily polite. But only then.
The Higginses were delighted to see her, promising her some lovely chops and a nice rib roast if she made it into
the shop during the weekend.
'Thank you,' Evie said coquettishly, perching on a chair
and looking inquiringly at the man she'd earmarked earlier
as suitable make-Max-jealous material.
'Our son, Paul,' beamed Mrs Higgins. 'Home from
London. You must have met when we first bought the
shop.'
'Of course, I remember,' Evie lied. Then, seeing Max
bearing down on her from the top table, no doubt under
instructions from his mother to make friends, she said
recklessly: 'I don't suppose you dance, Paul?'
'Er . . . yes.' Startled, he blinked at her. He wasn't as
handsome as she'd thought from across the room, but he'd
do nicely.
Evie stood up, grabbed his hand and they whirled away
from the table, just in time to see Max giving her a bemused look. She smiled sweetly back.
Conscious that he was watching her, Evie put on a
bravura performance. Paul had two left feet and no conversation,
but from the way Evie smiled up at him adoringly,
any onlooker would have thought he was the most fascinating
man in the room.
She was aware that she was behaving with abandon
and that if Cara, Olivia or Rosie had any clue what she
was up to, they'd be open-mouthed in shock, but she
didn't care. She was at her father's wedding for God's
sake, a wedding she'd sworn never to go to so normal
rules didn't apply.
She stuck it out for three dances, refusing to let Paul sit
down. 'It's so much fun,' she said gaily, ignoring the pain in
her toes from several altercations with the tug boats he
had on his feet.
Max whirled by, Judith attached to him like a barnacle.
Evie's smile grew brighter. He was a wonderful dancer,
she realised crossly, that big body of his remarkably graceful.
Judith was enjoying herself immensely, laughing like a
drain and pouting up at Max at every opportunity.
The music finished and the band announced that they
were taking a break.
"I could do with a drink,' Paul said, wiping the perspiration
from his forehead. 'Would you like one?'
'Yes,' Evie answered absently, still staring at Max and
Judith. 'Oh, no,' she said, spotting Simon at the ballroom
door. 'Sorry, Paul,' she added. 'Somebody I must greet.'
Simon had come straight from work and looked worn
out. His tie was imperceptibly crooked, his eyes were tired
end his sandy hair was standing up straight the way it
always did when he'd been on a long drive, unthinkingly
running his fingers through it at traffic lights.
Evie nearly knocked him over with the strength of her
embrace. 'Darling Simon,' she breathed, snuggling into his
neck like a vampire scenting lunch after a month in its
coffin.
'Evie, hello,' he answered. 'Missed much, have I?'
'You missed a wonderful ceremony and much more,'
said a deep voice. 'I'm Max Stewart, Vida's son.' Max, large
as life and twice as handsome, held out one hand to Simon.
'Simon,' said her father's voice. 'I'm so sorry you
couldn't make the wedding.'
'But we're glad you're here now,' added Vida, arriving
with a glass of champagne. 'Andrew has told me all about
you.'
It was like being ambushed, Evie thought. She recovered
gracefully. 'Yes, Vida, I want you to meet Simon, my fiance,' she emphasised, managing to give Max a steely look and to
wrap an arm around Simon at the same time.
Everyone shook hands.
'Evie, you haven't met my son Max yet,' Vida
exclaimed.
'How nice to meet you,' she said between gritted teeth.
'Isn't she a joker!' he chuckled, waggling a finger at her
playfully. 'We met earlier and she promised me a dance,
didn't you, Evie?'
With her father and Vida looking on happily, thrilled to
see this further sign of Evie's being reconciled to their
marriage, she couldn't say no.
'But there's no music,' she said suddenly, giving him an
angelic look. As if by magic, the band came back to life
with a twang of a double bass, Max held out his hand and
Evie took it, unable to prevent the sudden tremor she felt
as his skin touched hers.
She was going to get lockjaw from smiling so inanely, she
realised, as her assembled relatives beamed back at her
happily.
'You didn't look as if you were missing your fiance too
much earlier,' Max whispered into her ear as they walked
to the dance floor.
'I cherish the ground he walks on,' hissed Evie.
'Lucky man,' answered Max, eyebrows raised quizzically.
She'd
planned to stand on his feet and make him sorry
he'd ever asked her to dance, but the strains of Glenn
Miller meant she just couldn't. On the dance floor, Evie
came to life. Born with natural rhythm and a fluid grace,
her body flowed and moved to the music as if she'd trained
for years with the corps de ballet while moonlighting at a
jazz club.
Max, one arm holding her more closely than strictly
appropriate, appeared to have a similar gift. His large frame
moved expertly, flowing with hers to the point where she
felt like Ginger Rogers dancing with Fred Astaire.
Other dancers moved out of the way for them, admiring
their expert moves. Evie loved it. Her heart thumped with
exhilaration.
'Are we Fred and Ginger or what?' Max murmured, as
she rippled back into his arms after a spectacular twirl.
Evie laughed in spite of herself.
'Don't forget, Ginger did it backwards and in high heels,'
she gasped.
The music soared and she let herself go, enjoying the
moment as if she'd never danced before. Her hair flowed
out behind her and her body obeyed her every command, moving in perfect time with Max's.
Time passed in a blur of dancing feet and the sensation
of his body next to hers. His eyes danced as well as his feet
and Evie couldn't stop herself from smiling up at his face,
knowing that his laughing mouth mirrored her own.
That close, she admired his sleek black hair, raked back
from his forehead, and the eyebrows that could speak volumes,
arching in amusement or furrowing in concentration.
It seemed like only a few minutes until the musicians
took another breather.
Without letting go of Evie, Max glanced at his watch.
'Half an hour of dancing. I think we'd better stop or they'll
think we're the ones getting hitched.'
'Half an hour!' she exclaimed. 'It doesn't feel like
five . . .'
'Minutes?' he supplied.
'Exactly! I was having such fun.'
He regarded her solemnly, glittering blue eyes sober. 'Me
too.'
Aware that the dance floor was clearing and that they
were still standing in the middle, like statues, Evie tried to
let go of Max's hands. He held firm.
'I'd like to see you again,' he said softly, so softly that at first, she thought she'd imagined it.
'What?' she asked in astonishment.
He repeated himself. 'I'd like to see you again.'
A welter of emotions surged in Evie's breast: shock,
delight, excitement at the thought that Max Stewart
wanted to see her again. And then the sudden guilt of
knowing she couldn't.
'Simon,' she breathed. 'I'm seeing him . . . we're
engaged ... I can't.'
The cobalt eyes roamed over her, searching for some
sign of hope in her distressed little face. 'It's a pity I'm too
late,' he murmured. 'We'll just have to be brother and
sister to each other then, won't we?' he added softly.
He walked her back to her table in silence.
'Thank you for lending me your fiancee, Simon,' he said
loudly, his good humour apparently restored. 'She's a
wonderful dancer.'
'Isn't she!' said Simon, who himself did everything
possible to avoid setting one foot on a dance floor.
'I'll talk to you later,' Max said, the picture of joviality.
"Bye,' said Evie in a small voice.
Max's gaze lingered on her a moment and she couldn't
draw her eyes away from his. She hoped nobody else
noticed but she couldn't help herself.
Then he was gone.
Simon moved in his chair and in the process his elbow
caught a wine glass and sent it flying, ruby liquid staining
the white linen tablecloth.
Irritated, Evie was about to berate him for being clumsy
but stopped herself.
It wasn't his fault he wasn't Max.

Olivia was enjoying herself. Happy to let the music drift
over her, she sat with Sasha comfortably on her lap and
watched Evie dancing with Vida's son. Her friend looked
wonderfully animated, she thought.
A tap on her arm woke her from her reverie.
'Olivia, it's getting late. Sasha should be in bed.'
Stephen's mood had mellowed slightly although he was
still frosty-faced.
'Did you check if they have a baby sitting service or
not?'
'God, no, I didn't.' Olivia felt instantly guilty for being a
bad mother. 'I sort of thought we'd take it in turns to sit
with her. The party won't last more than another couple of
hours or so.'
It was just before half-eight and Vida had explained that
she hated long drawn-out weddings. 'The die-hards can sit
in the bar all evening but Andrew and I will be retiring
early,' she'd told Olivia earlier. 'It's been a long day and
we're getting up early to drive to the airport.'
They were going on a cruise for their honeymoon and
Olivia could feel her eyes take on an emerald green hue
when Vida spoke about cocktails on deck, day trips to
Santorini and the glamour of the captain's table.
'I'm not tired, Mummy,' piped up Sasha, still bright
eyed after her exciting day.
'Darling, you have to do as you're told,' Stephen said
gravely.
Like your mother, Olivia surprised herself by thinking.
Automatically, she got up and swung Sasha into her
arms. 'OK, Munchkin,' she said, nuzzling her daughter's
face, 'let's say goodnight to everyone.'
Stephen arrived in their hotel room when she was
tucking Sasha into bed.
'Will I read you a story?' he asked.
Sasha nodded and squirmed delightedly in her small
bed. Olivia put Sasha's flower-girl dress away and listened fondly as Stephen read the story of Flopsy, Mopsy and
Cottontail for the zillionth time.
She put her navy jacket back on, reapplied some lipstick
and waited for him to finish. If she went downstairs to the
party for another half an hour, she could speak to everyone
and then retire to bed while Stephen went back for an
hour. That suited her fine. She was tired anyhow.
Slipping the lipstick back in her handbag, she adjusted
her waistband and stood quietly by the door.
'Where are you going?' asked Stephen, total amazement
in his voice. 'You're sitting with Sasha, surely?'
Olivia blinked. He obviously expected her to stay. It
wasn't even open for discussion. Stephen had already
worked out that Olivia would forfeit the rest of her
evening to mind their daughter. It wasn't that Olivia didn't
want to sit with Sasha; she simply couldn't bear the fact
that Stephen hadn't given her a choice or offered to take
his turn.
She was the woman therefore she looked after the
children - that was it. QED. End of story. He was the
hunter-gatherer and couldn't be bothered with menial
tasks like caring for their daughter.
Like lava boiling dangerously under the earth's tectonic
plates, her anger suddenly came volcanically to the surface.
Face suffused with rage, Olivia motioned shakily for
Stephen to join her in the corridor.
'You never think about me for more than one second,
do you?' she whispered fiercely. 'You blindly expect me
to do as you want, without even asking me what I think.
It never even occurred to you that I might want to go
back to the party for a while and that you could look
after Sasha.'
Flustered, Stephen searched for words to give his side
of the story. Thanks to several glasses of decent Fleurie,
he couldn't think of any. This was not usual, Olivia
flaring up twice in one day. It wasn't even unusual; it was
unheard of.
She wasn't finished. Her eyes strangely bright, she poked
him in the chest with one finger.
'You can stay up here. I'm going to enjoy myself with my friends. You didn't even want to come to this wedding,
Stephen, so you can have an early night. I'll be downstairs
if Sasha needs me urgently.' She swept him with a disgusted
look. 'You don't spend enough time with her to
know what to do if she gets sick.' She swivelled regally and
swept off towards the stairs.
She made straight for the bar, anger making her determined
to have a huge drink that would irritate Stephen.
She rarely drank but when she did, he hated it. A modest
white wine spritzer fitted in with his version of cosy
Mother Hen, she thought venomously.
Vida's son was standing at the bar and Olivia detected a
slight sag to his shoulders.
He'd been so charming when she'd met him earlier, very
debonair and polite, although he'd had eyes for no one but
Evie. Now he greeted her warmly and asked her if she
wanted a drink.
'Something very strong,' she answered flintily. 'Something
that'll knock me out so I don't murder my husband
in his bed tonight!'
Max's eyes gleamed with amusement.
'Far be it for me to interfere,' he said gravely, 'but I
believe alcohol is more likely to make you murder your
husband.'
Olivia's eyes met his and they both laughed.
'I was getting a Brandy Alexander for my mother
because she adores them but only allows herself one as a
special treat. Can I get you one?'
The party was indeed winding down, with people sitting
in little groups and the musicians playing softly in the
background. Max and Olivia sat in a quiet corner and
watched the last few dancers swaying merrily on the floor.
Olivia didn't know if it was the Brandy Alexander, the
soft lighting or the fact that Max proved to be such a good
listener, but she found herself telling him about her row
with Stephen. And about her crisis of confidence.
'I love cooking and teaching people how to cook
but . . .' She broke off in frustration. 'It's so difficult to
teach when you've got a few brats in your class and I'm
not strong enough to control them. I feel so useless when
they misbehave and I can't stop them, as if every other
teacher in the school is standing outside the door listening
in shock.'
"Course they're not,' Max said reassuringly. 'I doubt if
you'll find many teachers today who don't have problems
with their classes. It's a tough job, teaching, I wouldn't like
to do it. Kids are so clever, they instantly pick up on it if
you're nervous.'
'You can say that again,' Olivia sighed. 'I wish my
husband understood this,' she added. 'He'd only see it as
proof that I shouldn't be teaching in the first place. He
thinks I should be at home glued to the oven, cooking him
dinner and polishing the silver, instead of teaching what he
describes as "juvenile delinquents",' she said bitterly.
'Your husband doesn't understand you,' Max said gently,
a twinkle in his eye.
Olivia laughed, a throaty sound that surprised her. She
hadn't laughed in so long, not a real laugh, anyway. 'He
doesn't,' she replied candidly. 'I think he understood me
once, about a million years ago, and he thinks he still does.
He has me neatly in a little box, labelled "Olivia". That's
me. I'm not allowed to change in any way, inside or out.
He can, but I can't.' She paused, and looked at Max, taking
in the glittering eyes that were so kind as he returned her
gaze unwaveringly. He'd looked like a wolf in Armani
earlier, a real lady killer, dangerous with a capital D. Now
he looked like the most compassionate, sympathetic man
she'd ever met. 'I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I
never talk to strangers, certainly not to strange men.' She
gave a little false chuckle. 'My husband doesn't like it. He
thinks I'm throwing myself at them.'
'Today seems to be a day for doing things your husband
doesn't approve of,' Max remarked.
Her face lit up. 'Order me another Brandy Alexander,'
she declared. "I fancy another one and as I'm not driving,
I'll have it.'
Halfway through the second drink, Max said something
that startled her into almost spilling champagne on her
jacket.
'I told you I'm involved in TV production,' he said.
'Mainly those two-hour mini series but I did a lot of
straight TV work years ago. The thing is, a friend of mine is
working on this morning TV show and they've run into
difficulties with their cookery presenter. It's a slot three
times a week and this woman has just been offered a job in
Paris so she's pulling out. They're going mad because they
need someone to take her place immediately. I think you'd
be perfect for it.'
Olivia just stared at him. Was he on drugs? The?'
'Yes, you. You're beautiful, you're an expert cook, and I
think you'd look marvellous on television.'
The?' she repeated, practically gasping this time. 'I'd
panic, I'd be hopeless, I'd look terrible, I'd . . .'
Max shrugged. 'I've been on one side of the camera for
twenty years now and if there's one thing I've got a feel for, it's how somebody translates on to the screen. I don't know for sure and it's not an exact science, but I'm
convinced you'd be wonderful.'
Olivia was still staring at him disbelievingly but he
pushed on.
'It's just in front of a small TV crew, smaller than an
average class, and at least they'll be hanging on your every
word. The slot is fifteen minutes long and you'd have
researchers to help you.'
'I've never done anything like that before,' Olivia said,
feeling stupid. 'I was never in the drama club in school, I
just wasn't a performer.'
'This is different.' Max's face was earnest now. All you
have to do is cook something on television. You can plan
and test it all beforehand and make several different
versions at different stages, otherwise it's just doing what
you do now. Except you'd get paid more. But,' he paused,
'I can understand if you're nervous about Stephen not
wanting you to do it.'
Olivia's grey eyes flashed like quicksilver. 'That's not it.
Don't try and manipulate me, Max.'
He put up his hands in surrender. 'Forgive me, you're
right. I wanted to prod you into doing this, just a screen
test, that's all. I was wrong to try that . . .'
'Just a screen test?' she interrupted.
'Two hours of your life,' he said, 'between make-up and
shooting. Then you'll know for definite.'
She breathed heavily, wondering if she was going to
regret this. 'I'll do it. But don't tell anyone,' she added
hurriedly. 'Nobody is to know.'
Max crossed his heart. 'Scout's honour.'
Olivia gave him a wry grin. 'I can't see you as a scout,
somehow.'
Max chuckled, eyes flashing mischievously. 'I can make a
fire by rubbing two girl guides together. Seriously, Olivia, I
bet you anything you'll be great.'
Olivia banished the notion that she didn't know what
exactly she was getting herself into and gave him a gutsy
smile. 'We'll see,' she said, crossing her fingers. 'And you're
right - Stephen will hate it.'

Evie waved the Butlers goodbye at the hotel's front
entrance. She was tired and ready for bed.
'Long day, huh?' said Cara, leaning against the wall and
not bothering to stifle a yawn.
'Yes, I'm ready for bed,' Evie replied.
'Ms Evie Eraser?' said a voice.
The receptionist held a white envelope in her hand.
'Yes?'
'A letter for you, Ms Fraser.'
Too weary to think who would be sending her letters at
this hour of the night, Evie unthinkingly ripped the
envelope open. Inside was one sheet of paper.
The message was simple, written in a bold hand: 'If
you change your mind, phone me. Max . And a phone
number.
She ran her fingers over the message, as if touching him.
'What's that?' inquired Cara, peering over her sister's
shoulder.
Evie hastily stuffed the paper into her handbag. 'Nothing.
A fax for Simon, the hotel addressed it to me by
mistake because we're sharing,' she lied.
They walked to their rooms, Evie's mind seething. She
couldn't deny she'd felt something intense when she'd met
Max Stewart but she couldn't do anything about it. He
was just a fantasy, not real, not for her. She was in love
with Simon. How dare Max try and rock her boat? She'd
clearly told him she couldn't see him again.
'It was a lovely day,' Cara was saying. 'Vida looked
marvellous. Her son was very nice too, wasn't he? Dishy
really,' she added dreamily. 'I told Dad I'd take him out, get
to know him better. He's sort of related to us now, like a
brother.'
'He's a rogue,' Evie said shortly, thinking of the note and
of her engagement ring. 'Personally, I'd be happy if I never
saw him again.'
CHAPTER NINE

Olivia closed her eyes and let the make-up artist do her
best. She felt a sponge smooth foundation on to her face,
pressing into every crevice relentlessly. With one eye open
a smidgen, she realised it was a dark honeyed shade she'd
never have worn.
'Don't worry,' reassured the make-up artist, seeing
Olivia's long lashes flutter in horror. 'You'll look as if
you're anaemic on TV without a dark base. This Screen
face stuff is perfect for you, I promise.'
Seeing as Olivia knew absolutely zero about the world
of television, she said nothing. Perhaps it was good to look
tangerine on camera? What did she know?
Since she'd arrived at the studio half an hour ago and been
whisked up to make-up without a by-your-leave from the
producer she was supposed to meet, Olivia had felt like a kid
on the first day at a new school. People sped past her at every
moment, bearing clipboards and important expressions.
The denim-clad teenager who'd brought Olivia up to
the make-up department had nearly had a seizure en route
when the mobile phone hooked on to her jeans went off
with a jarring trumpet call.
'What? I said I wasn't to be disturbed!' she screeched into
the phone, seemingly oblivious to the fact that Olivia was
with her.
Wow! Olivia thought. If even the gophers had mobiles
and attitudes, what the hell would the programme's
movers and shakers be like? Bloody nightmares, she
reckoned.
'You've lovely bones,' sighed the make-up lady, getting
to work on Olivia's eyes. 'It's a joy to work with you. You
weren't a model, were you?' she asked suspiciously.
Olivia grinned, knowing she was crinkling up her eyes
and therefore, ruining the other woman's chance of applying
eye shadow. 'No,' she said with an ironic laugh.
'You could have been,' sighed the make-up lady. 'It's a
shame really. When I think of some of the cows I've got to
make up in here. They come in looking like unmade beds
and throw tantrums if they don't go out looking like
Claudiableedin'Schiffer.'
Olivia and the rest of the make-up department erupted
into laughter. A spot of bitching ensued, with a discussion
of which TV star had the biggest head and the least chance
of ending up looking like a supermodel.
After fifteen minutes, Olivia was able to admire herself
in a mirror which really did have lightbulbs around it.
Her silvery eyes stood out even more dramatically than
usual and her full lips were glisteningly plump in a lilac
colour that picked up the amethyst trouser suit she wore.
With her blonde hair shimmering around her face in silky
strands, she looked beautiful.
'Thank you,' she told the make-up lady. 'You made me
relax and I was so nervous.'
The woman smiled. 'It's a pleasure working on someone
like you. Someone lovely who appreciates it.'
Downstairs, Olivia followed another production assistant,
a much nicer, less volatile personality, towards the
studio. His name was Kevin and he was young, attractive
and chatty, a huge change from Ms Bitch From Hell
earlier. His platinum crew cut suited him, making his dark
skin look exotic by contrast.
Outside the double doors to Studio One, a red light was
shining brightly.
'Do not enter when the red light is on,' proclaimed a
huge notice on the wall.
'Should we go in?' asked Olivia anxiously, seeing the
light glowing crimson in the television building gloom.
'No prob,' replied Kevin breezily. 'They're getting ready
to record a segment for tomorrow morning but they'll
never hear us here. It's a band, The Wild Men. You could
let off a nuke in reception and nobody would hear it in
Studio 1.'
'Oh.' Wondering if she was ever going to know anything
about the TV world, Olivia followed Kevin's denim
encased bum into the studio.
It was an enormous room with black-clad walls full of
cables hidden behind the terracotta screens of the Wake
Up Breakfast Show studio set. In the shadowy behind-the
scenes area, men and women in sweatshirts and denims
stood around with radio mikes and bored expressions,
while to the left of the cuddly morning sofa set (two
bright raspberry velvet sofas awash with primary-coloured
cushions), a very wrinkly rock band all wearing orange
sunglasses belted out their latest hit.
The noise was phenomenal, even though Olivia would
have sworn blind that the band weren't playing live.
'Do it to me, baybee!' went the lyrics over and over
again as the lead singer practically stuck the mike in his
huge mouth as he mimed to the words theatrically.
Two camera operators performed an elaborate dance on
the studio floor, weaving in and out of the cables as their
cameras whizzed up and down, taking in every twitch and
pelvic thrust of the band.
'I'll just tell the producer you're here. Her name's Linda
Byrne, she's expecting you.'
Ignoring the action on the floor, Kevin sashayed over to a
forty-something woman in black leather jeans and a grey
T-shirt who was talking into a radio mike. Olivia, feeling
totally in the way, tried to blend into the background.
There seemed to be an inordinate amount of people in
there, some watching the band through narrowed eyes,
some talking to each other.
Linda was eyeing her up and Olivia turned nervously
away. What the hell was she doing here? She must be mad. She'd kill Max when she saw him again. I mean, if she
couldn't control a classroom of kids, how the hell did she
think she could appear calm and poised in front of this
load of TV veterans? They were all so blase that nobody
was even listening to The Wild Men. I mean, they'd been a
huge band once and the people in the studio were looking
as bored as if somebody was racing earthworms across the
floor. How did she even imagine that anyone would be
bothered to look at her?
Just then, a vision in aquamarine swept into her line of
vision and abruptly ended Olivia's anguished soul
searching.
The vision was a blonde woman with a frosted, upswept
hairdo and a tight blue taffeta jacket vainly trying to stay
buttoned over her considerable bosom. She stalked
through the back of the studio with a make-up artist
trailing in her wake. Olivia instantly recognised the woman
as Nancy Roberts, one half of the morning show's presenting
team. Voluptuous, with flashing blue eyes, a cute snub
nose and a permanently working mouth, she was the
picture of vibrant animation. The public loved Nancy, both
for her unashamedly down-to-earth manner and the fact
that she flaunted her size 16 figure, defiantly refusing to
lose weight for the unforgiving television cameras, which
had made her an icon for 16+ women all over the country.
You couldn't pick up a newspaper without reading
about Nancy, a woman who proudly eschewed the champagne
lifestyle of the TV personality for quality time spent
with her family and her beloved vegetable garden.
In the week since Max had convinced her to audition
for the breakfast show, the only thing that had kept Olivia
from cancelling through sheer nerves was the thought
that no matter how bad she was, at least she'd meet the
famous Nancy.
Then, Olivia had been informed that her screen test
would take place in the afternoon, which meant she
probably wouldn't meet the star after all.
So it was a real bonus to see Nancy Roberts on set. But
from the way she was storming in from the back of the studio
with a mobile phone jammed against her ear, she didn't look
at all like the lovably down-to-earth woman of the newspaper
features. In fact, she looked positively outraged.
The make-up artist hurried alongside her, a velour
powder puff held aloft in one hand.
'Nancy, I need to get rid of the shine on your nose . . .'
'Shut the fuck up!' screeched Nancy, before resuming
her conversation on the phone. 'Who the bloody hell do
you think I am? Nancy-fucking-Roberts, that's who! I'm
not doing some pissing little shop opening in the back of
beyond for a measly grand. You'd better cop on quick, you
little shit, or I'll be looking for a new agent!'
She snapped the phone shut with such force that Olivia
reckoned it'd break. Then Nancy stopped dead, turned her
face to the make-up artist and calmly waited to be
powder-puffed. A thin woman dressed in grey appeared
beside her and received both a withering look and Nancy's
mobile phone to hold.
Finally, the TV star closed her eyes, took a deep breath
that reminded Olivia of a yoga video she'd once bought,
and waited for the band to finish.
As if by magic, her face composed itself into a beatific
smile and she bounced on to the set, clapping as if the
mimed song was the most wonderful thing she'd ever
heard instead of a woeful comeback record from a band
who'd spent all their past royalties on serious cocaine
habits and were now in financial straits.
On the monitors, Olivia watched in amazement as
Nancy's snub nose wrinkled up in that idiosyncratic, lovable
way.
'Boys, that was fan-tas-tic!' she cooed. 'You make me feel
nineteen again, which wasn't that long ago, you know,' she
added archly, giving the lead singer an affectionate tickle.
Taking his cue after a lifetime of TV performances
where flirting with the hostess was a prerequisite, no
matter how much of a dog she was, the lead singer grabbed
Nancy in a bear hug. Clutching her to his sharkskin-suited
body, he gave his trademark sexy roar. 'Baybee! How about
you and me gettin' out of here and havin' some fun?'
Nancy squealed with delighted laughter. 'Don't tempt
me, Barry,' she sighed with a pout, wriggling out of his
grasp in a way that guaranteed maximum exposure of her
cleavage. 'I'm a happily married woman.'
'No!' Barry groaned, running a hand through a leonine
mass of dyed hair. 'You're breakin' my heart, Nancy
baybee. You've been promisin' me for years. I'm all alone
now and I need the love of a good woman.'
She shook her head resolutely, as if she'd just been
offered a double cream and strawberry shortcake dessert
but had to say no. 'Dickie would never forgive either of us.
But you'll come back for another session on the show
when the album is out, won't you Barry?' she added.
'You betcha, baybee,' drawled Barry, before going seamlessly
into plug-the-record mode. 'The album is out in
three months and we're off touring the States next week
with fifty dates.'
'Oooh,' breathed Nancy, 'I bet you've a woman in every
state?'
'None like you, Nancy.' he said, a touch of longing in his
voice. With that, he walked off set over to where his model
girlfriend, rail-thin and with a face like a Greek goddess,
stood waiting patiently. Having seen Barry in action before,
she hadn't even raised an eyebrow when he'd sucked up to
Nancy.
'Great!' yelled the floor manager. 'Thanks, everybody.'
Nancy, who despite her frantic onscreen flirting hadn't
looked once in Barry's direction since he'd ambled off the
set, sat down on one of the raspberry couches. Her face
rearranged itself back into bad-tempered mode.
'Gimme some water, Nita,' she yelled at her grey-clad
assistant. 'You know I need two litres a day or I dehydrate.'
Kevin sidled up to Olivia and, seeing the ultra
astonished look on her face, whispered into her ear: 'She's
a nightmare, isn't she? But she's such a professional on
screen, nobody talks about what she's really like.
'You'd understand if you worked around here. Nancy
knows instantly and instinctively where to stand, what to
say . . . you name it. She's a complete pro. But what a
bitch!'
'What about all this stuff about her being a lovely, sweet
woman who's mad on gardening and hates champagne and
all that?' Olivia whispered, aghast.
Kevin quivered with suppressed laughter. 'Gardening!'
he hissed. 'The only trowel La Roberts ever lifts is when
she puts her make-up on. Somebody in her agent's office
dreamed that one up and she went ballistic'
He led Olivia over to the woman in leather he'd spoken
to earlier, whispering in Olivia's ear all the time: 'Still, the
Great Unwashed love the idea of their favourite telly star
up to her eyeballs in tulip bulbs and potting compost, so
she keeps it up. You'll notice she never actually mentions
any flower by name. One journalist asked her which
fuchsia she liked best. What a howl!' He giggled at the
memory. 'All she knows about flowers is how to judge
exactly how much money the bouquets she's been sent
actually cost. And, believe me, she's an expert at that.'
His voice returned to normal levels. 'Linda, this is Olivia
MacKenzie. Olivia, this is Linda Byrne, the show's producer.'
The two women shook hands. 'MacKenzie?' said Linda
thoughtfully.
'Max Stewart and Paul Reddin arranged for me to come
for the cooking slot,' Olivia said, thinking the producer
didn't recognise her name.
'Oh, no, it's not that.' Linda waved a hand airily. 'It's just
that our astrologer is a MacKenzie too, believe it or not.
We can't have two on the show. People will think you're
related. What's your maiden name?'
'De Were,' Olivia replied.
'De Were!' said Kevin and Linda approvingly in unison.
'That's much better,' Linda added. 'Olivia de Were . . .
Olivia de Were,' she repeated. 'Marvellous. Now, let's see if
you can do it. Have the researchers gone over what we've
organised with you?' The way Linda asked the question
made it plain to Olivia that it was practically rhetorical.
Linda was quite sure the researchers had sorted everything
out and she'd only asked automatically.
So Olivia hated having to say 'no'. But she had to. She
hadn't seen any researcher and had no idea what she was
supposed to do.
'I'm afraid not,' she said candidly.
'Shit!' Linda said. 'I'm sorry, Olivia, they were supposed
to bring you up to speed on what we've organised . . . I'll
fucking kill that stupid Carol. I told her to talk to you.
You'll have to wing it - we've only got another half an
hour before the camera men's shift ends.'
Thinking that things couldn't really get any worse,
Olivia idly wondered if everyone in television swore like
troopers and how did they stop when the cameras were
rolling? Nancy's tongue could rival any docker's, yet she
never lapsed into 'shit' on air.
'You don't mind winging it?' Linda asked.
Olivia, feeling remarkably calm for a woman who'd
needed valium to get her through a wedding the previous
week, grinned at her. 'As long as you give me a brief
explanation of what I'm supposed to do.'
'You're a star.' Linda patted Olivia's arm and led her
over to the cookery set. Stuck in the farthest corner of the
studio, the cookery set was actually a high-tech stainless
steel kitchen with everything you could possibly need,
from a giant American fridge to a sleek double oven and
state of the art microwave. Windows complete with
flower-filled window boxes looked out on to a fake city
scene of shimmering skyscrapers. The kitchen was so
perfect that it was hard to imagine it didn't belong to some
sprawling loft apartment in Manhattan.
The only difference between it and a normal kitchen
was the long TV-style freestanding unit with another sink
and two hobs where the cook stood and faced the cameras. On the unit lay a bizarre assortment of foods: one shrivelled,
schizophrenic pepper that wasn't sure whether it
was yellow or green, a bunch of bananas, some creamed
coconut, two small onions and some crusty bread.
Olivia laughed out loud. No researcher needed to tell
her what she had to do - it was like those TV cookery
programmes where a celebrity spent a fiver buying the
most ludicrous combination of food and then a harassed
chef had to turn it into a reasonable meal.
'Carol hasn't worked on the cookery slot before,' Linda
said with a sigh as she looked at the groceries. 'She hasn't a
clue. What we want is for you to talk us through making a
dish with this stuff. You can just start the dish, you don't
actually have to cook it.' She looked at her watch. 'We
don't have time, really. But if you start and we film you,
we'll get a good idea how you perform, right?'
'Right,' Olivia replied evenly. It was funny feeling this
calm, she thought. Ironic really. The thing was, because she
hadn't been prepared properly by the TV people, she
could hardly do a very good job, could she? So if she failed
miserably, they'd think it was because of that, not because
she was a useless coward who quaked in her boots at the
thought of teaching 3A.
When it was all over, she'd just slip out quietly and
never set foot in a TV studio ever again. She'd promised
Max and she wouldn't break a promise. But never again.
She'd be terrible, she knew it, but all she had to do was
get through this next half an hour calmly and leave. That
was all.
Linda spoke into her radio mike: 'Can we get a sound
person over here to mike Olivia up?'
In two minutes she was wearing a microphone, the
bulky unit attached to the waistband of her trousers at
the back.
'You'll be great,' Kevin said encouragingly, as he opened
cupboard doors to show her where everything was.
'I hope so,' she replied fervently.
'Afterwards, I'll steal some of Nancy's champagne so we
can celebrate,' he whispered wickedly.
'Nancy's champagne?' asked Olivia. 'I thought she . . .'
'Didn't drink champagne?' Kevin grinned. 'She doesn't
drink it - she slurps it up like a dehydrated camel. If she
gave up Cristal alone for a month, she'd lose a stone!'
Olivia was still laughing when Kevin left her alone on
the kitchen set. She found a couple of knives, a chopping
board and some Chinese-style dishes. The cupboards
yielded some interesting spices and store cupboard staples.
The last cookery person had known her stuff, Olivia
thought, discovering treasures that would make her
banana-and-onions combo edible. She knew exactly what
to do.
'Ready to go whenever you are,' said a strange voice.
Olivia whirled around to find two cameras on her and the
crew of radio-miked, clipboard-wielding people staring at
her with interest.
For a moment, her mind went blank. She stared at the
camera directly in front of her and there was nothing in
her head. Nothing. Her mind felt the way it was supposed
to when you couldn't sleep and tried to imagine nothing at
all so you'd drop off instantly.
During sleepless nights, Olivia found she just couldn't
imagine nothing and ended up worrying about all the
things she had to do the next morning.
But today, in front of an entire television studio, her
mind was like the blackboard before a lesson - utterly
blank. Why was she here? She'd been mad to think she
could do this. Absolutely mad! Those Brandy Alexanders
Max had bought her, the row with Stephen and a false
sense of bravado had got her into this hideously embarrassing
mess and now she was going to screw up publicly and
desperately.
Feeling herself start to sweat with fear, she looked
around the studio in a panic, looking for Linda so she could
beg to go home and apologise for wasting all their time.
And then she saw Nancy. The presenter was still sitting on
her raspberry couch and staring at Olivia with interest. The
sort of emotionless interest assassins display in films before
they pull the trigger on their quarry. Or perhaps not that
emotionless, Olivia realised, as Nancy smiled spitefully at
her predicament.
The famous, pink-lipsticked mouth curved up in a
contemptuous smirk, one that clearly said: 'Amateurs.'
God, she was a bitch but she could turn on her TV
persona like turning on a kettle, Olivia realised. A viper in
real life, Nancy could switch on her television charm
instantly because she had to. She couldn't possibly display
her real self on TV so she acted. Well, if acting was all that
was required, Olivia could do that too. She was acting all
the time at home these days - acting happy families and
acting as if she wasn't going slowly mad. Acting was a
doddle. She eyeballed Nancy, took a deep breath and faced
the camera again.
'This,' said Olivia, smiling as she held it up in one hand,
'is a pepper' Her voice was nervous and slightly quavering.
She had to make it firmer, slower. Concentrate, Olivia!
Imagine you're in the classroom with a schools' examiner
down your back, scrutinising your every move.
'Peppers are wonderfully nourishing and incredibly
sweet and rich if cooked properly. They're the basis of lots
of simple sauces. But what do you do if you're rushing in
and out of the supermarket and end up at home with a sad
specimen like ours?'
She was getting into her stride now. 'Bin it and send out
for a pizza? Or get inventive with your store cupboard
contents and make a delicious meal?'
From the corner of her eye, Olivia could see people
watching her. They were interested, actually interested in
what you could do with a mean little pepper that probably
had less flavour than a used teabag. They weren't like 3A,
bored rigid by the very notion of making things with
peppers.
Olivia smiled at her audience, feeling a surge of confidence.
If she treated the studio people like an interested
class, she could do it. She might even enjoy it.
'The answer,' she said, her face animated, 'are these
things.' Whisking out a jar of chilli flakes, a container of
sun-dried tomatoes and some dried porcini mushrooms.
'Wait till you see what we can do with these,' she added
enthusiastically.
Kevin's face, lit up with a huge, congratulatory grin,
leapt out at her from the crowd. It was working, Olivia
realised.
'Now who knows what to do with chilli flakes?' she
asked.
She could see Linda looking suddenly nervous, as if
Olivia had made the fatal inexperienced-TV-person mistake
of expecting the technicians to join in. But Olivia,
accustomed to asking questions in class and answering
them herself because bored students doodling pop song
lyrics on their textbooks couldn't be bothered, hadn't
actually expected anyone to answer. Seamlessly, she
explained exactly what you could do with chilli flakes. She
chopped, she pureed, she sautéed . . . and she had her
audience in the palm of her hand.
Afterwards, when she wondered how she'd actually
stood in front of around thirty people and two cameras
and talked to them for ages, she realised the secret was that
she'd forgotten about the cameras. She'd tried to concentrate
on the people watching and on the actual cooking,
which she loved. And it had worked. These people looked
at her with fascination as she spoke passionately about
creating a beautiful meal with fresh ingredients.
Fourteen year olds couldn't care less about healthy
eating and how a little garlic was one of the best medicines
around. They wanted three-minutes-in-the-microwave
food so they could go out afterwards and flirt with
seventeen-year-old boys.
But the grown ups in front of her loved the idea of
making their own tomato sauces and relished the thought
that a couple of little jars from the delicatessen could
rescue them from a daily diet of heat-and-serve dinners.
Even if they didn't actually make tomato sauce, they liked
knowing how to do it.
They let her run on for fifteen minutes, five longer than
originally planned.
'Fantastic,' enthused Linda when the cameras went off.
You're a natural!'
Olivia slumped against the unit, suddenly exhausted by
her efforts. 'Really?' she asked, suddenly doubting herself.
She'd thought it was OK, but how could she tell? She
hadn't been hopeless but she was hardly up to broadcasting
standard, surely?
'Brilliant,' said the floor manager.
'Absolutely brilliant,' echoed Kevin. 'You are a complete
star, Ms de Were. I can't believe you've never done that
before.'
'I just kept imagining the worst class I teach and
thinking you lot were nicer, so it was easy,' she said.
They all laughed. 'It certainly worked,' Linda confirmed.
'I was hungry just listening to you talk. I'm going to the
canteen for something as soon as we're finished. Come on
and watch yourself in the control room.'
Olivia blanched. 'I couldn't.'
'You will and you'll be amazed. You were great. In fact, I
reckon you're hired, although I can't say officially until
Paul sees the tape.' Watching herself on video in the
control room, Olivia felt she was in a dream. The glamorous
blonde woman who behaved as if being in front of the
cameras was the most natural thing in the world couldn't
be her, could it? Her onscreen self smiled at the camera
tranquilly and shook her curtain of shimmering golden hair
out of the way occasionally, a habit she'd noticed in Sasha
but which Olivia had no idea she shared herself.
And her eyes . . . they looked huge in her face, like two
silvery orbs shining with enthusiasm. She looked, Olivia
thought with utter surprise, beautiful. Not doll-like or
expressionless, the way she felt when Stephen told her she
was beautiful, but lively, vivacious, animated.
'You look great on television,' Linda repeated, peering
carefully at the screen. 'Very natural. I thought you weren't
going to be all right in the beginning, you hesitated and I
thought, "Oh-oh, rabbit on road in front of oncoming car
time." But you gathered it all together and gave us quite a
performance.'
Olivia, feeling a little shell-shocked by everything,
grinned to herself. She couldn't very well tell Linda that
the sight of Nancy Roberts smiling like a venomous
Cheshire cat had spurred her on to perform in a way she'd
never thought possible.
As if she was reading Olivia's thoughts, Linda said: 'You
must meet Nancy before you go.'
Olivia wasn't sure that she wanted to but she could
hardly say that.
'If you're going to be working with us, you'll be working
specifically with Nancy. She hosts the cookery slots and
you two should . . . er . . .' Linda hesitated '. . . get on.'
Obviously, the producer wasn't going to say that getting
on with Nancy was vital to remaining on the show but
Olivia could read between the lines. She briefly wondered
if the previous cookery person had got on with Nancy.
They walked along a corridor to the dressing rooms,
with Linda explaining how often they'd need Olivia if she
was to be hired. Two mornings a week for a fifteen-minute
slot at ten-thirty, which would involve discussing the menu
with the researchers and coming in at half-eight to get the
preparation done.
As they walked past several open doors, Olivia could see
that the dressing rooms were compact little boxes each
containing a tiny sink, a clothes hanging space, a few chairs
and wall-to-wall mirrors.
Then, they reached Nancy's dressing room.
Nita, the star's beleaguered assistant, opened the door
gingerly when Linda knocked and let them into a large airy
room that looked like at least three ordinary dressing
rooms knocked into one. Painted in Nancy's signature pink,
the room contained a zebra-print armchair, a cherry pink
and gilt chaise-longue and a coffee table groaning under
the weight of fan letters and a glossy magazines opened on
purpose at fawning profiles of the star herself. There was
even a pink-tiled bathroom.
One light-bulb-edged mirror was a shrine to Nancy with
scores of pictures of her stuck haphazardly on to the glass:
Nancy with Frank Sinatra, Neil Diamond, the President
and Barney. A vase of fresh pink roses sat beside the shrine,
with another cellophaned bouquet of baby pink ones on
the floor, waiting to be arranged.
The star herself was arranged on the chaise-longue, feet
up and a glass of champagne in her hand.
In her pink boudoir, on the pink and gilt chaise, Nancy
looked like everybody's vision of a brothel's madam. She
was tough enough for the job, too, Olivia reckoned,
imagining Nancy personally throwing punters on to the
.street for not paying up.
'Olivia, how lovely to meet you,' Nancy said in her
television voice. Thrilled that Nancy had decided to be
nice to her, Olivia held out a hand. Nancy, however, wasn't
into hand shaking. 'So formal,' she tittered, giving Olivia an
air kiss on both sides of her face. The waft of overpowering
Hypnotic Poison left Olivia reeling. Nancy must have used
half the bottle in one go.
'Do sit.' Nancy patted the end of the chaise and Olivia
sat down, waiting to see how the encounter would
progress. It was a bit like entering the lioness's den and
finding her no longer hungry for fresh meat but in the
mood to toy with you. One false move and you were dead.
'Where did you find Olivia?' Nancy asked Linda, still in
sweet mode. Nancy was obviously wary of Linda, Olivia
decided, which was why she was being so nice to the
producer.
'She's a friend of Max Stewart's.'
Nancy's eyes turned into slits at the word 'friend'.
'Really?' She gave Olivia the once over. 'You're his type,
I'll say that for you.'
'I'm happily married and Max isn't my type,' she replied
tartly.
Nancy giggled girlishly. 'Poor pet, you'll have to get used
to our bitchy ways in television,' she said in a patronising
voice. 'You won't last long if you can't develop skin a little
thicker than that, Olivia. This business is very incestuous,
you know, that's why I asked. We all live in each other's
pockets. Everyone sleeps with everyone else eventually.
How do you know Max, anyway?'
'He's a friend of my husband's,' Olivia lied, innocently
thinking that was one way to scotch rumours of anything
between herself and Max.
'What does he do?'
'He's in banking.'
'What's his name?'
'Stephen MacKenzie.'
'Never heard of him.' Nancy continued the interrogation.
'What did you do before this?'
'I teach Home Economics.'
'Ooh.' Satisfied at last, Nancy sat back against her
plump cushions and drank more champagne. She'd not
offered any to Olivia or Linda. 'Cookery classes.'
'It's more than cookery!' Olivia said hotly.
'I'm sure it is. Do you do sewing as well?' Nancy asked
facetiously. 'Linda,' she turned to the producer, who'd been
silently watching the exchange, 'maybe we should get
Olivia to sew as well? I seem to remember making a lovely
little gingham apron when I was in home economics
classes. Useless, of course, but so pretty. Wouldn't that be a
nice slot - Olivia teaching people how to make aprons and
clothes for Barbie dolls?'
'Well, I don't know, Nancy,' said Linda in a thoughtful
tone, getting to her feet. 'That's not a bad idea. We'll think
about it. Come on, Olivia, we've people to meet.'
Olivia, outraged by Nancy's comments and just as
outraged by the producer's obsequious response, felt herself
go white with rage.
'So nice to meet you,' Nancy said disarmingly. 'You were
good on camera.'
Taken aback, Olivia stared at the other woman, her
longing to lacerate Nancy with a smart comment subsiding.
She was never good with smart remarks. Evie would
have thought up something devastating.
'Er . . . thank you,' she stuttered.
Linda held the door open and Olivia was nearly in the
corridor when Nancy hit her with a parting shot.
Of course, it's easy to be competent with no audience
and the knowledge the show isn't live,' Nancy said, her
voice so treacly it was hard to reconcile it with her bitchy

words. 'Try it for real, sweetie, and you'll get a big shock.
Live television sorts out the amateurs from the professionals.'
She gave Olivia a withering look that left her in no
doubt as to which category Nancy had placed her in.
Linda slammed the door before Olivia could say anything
in response. 'She's quite a character, isn't she?' the
producer said weakly.
Character, Olivia thought, wasn't the word.

Evie laughed delightedly and hugged Olivia.
'I'm so pleased for you,' she said. 'Olivia de Were, TV
star! How wonderful! We'll have to have a girls' night out to celebrate.'
Thinking of Stephen's feelings about girls' nights out,
Olivia smiled weakly, the buzz she'd felt after leaving
the television centre abating somewhat. Driving through
the traffic to Evie's house, she'd felt high on adrenaline
and thrilled with herself. Now, sitting at Evie's kitchen
table with a mug of weak tea in her hand and some
ginger nut biscuits on a plate in front of her, she began
to wonder if she'd hallucinated the whole thing.
She was Olivia MacKenzie, mum-of-one, wife to the
disgruntled Stephen, hardly a TV star. Evie was the lively
one, the animated one.
'I don't know, Evie,' she sighed, 'am I mad even to think
of doing this? What if I do go to pieces when it's live . . .'
But Evie wouldn't hear a word of it: 'Don't listen to
that bitch,' she said, fierce in her loyalty. 'I may not
know anything about the world of television, Olivia, but
I know jealousy when I see it. She's jealous as sin, that's
all. Jealous because you're better looking, thinner and naturally blonde.' Evie didn't care about verbally mangling
a woman she'd hitherto admired for being one of the
few voluptuous-and-proud-of-it women on TV. Nancy
Roberts had been vicious to her beloved Olivia and for
that she deserved to die! Or be slagged off as a talentless
bleached blonde.
'It's a compliment really.' she added. 'She feels threatened
by you and that's why she lashed out. If she'd been as
sweet as pie, then you'd have reason to worry because it'd
mean you were terrible.'
Delighted with her logic, Evie carried on. 'I was worried
about you doing the audition in the first place,' she
admitted. 'Not because I thought you wouldn't be able for
it,' she added hastily. 'But because Max Stewart,' she
almost spat his name out, 'organised it. I was sure he was
simply bullshitting you.'
'I don't know what you've got against Max,' Olivia said
mildly. 'He's a lovely man, very kind and friendly.'
Evie snorted.
'You don't still think he was trying to set you up when
he chatted with you at the wedding, Evie, do you?' Olivia
said. 'He's not that sort of person.'
You don't know what sort of person he is, Evie thought
grimly. She hadn't told Olivia about Max wanting to see
her again, even though he knew she was engaged to
Simon. It was despicable, dreadful. She hadn't been able
to stop thinking about it and him.
He filled her thoughts and she'd had endless screaming
matches in her head when she'd told him exactly what she
thought of him. The words 'rogue', 'chancer' and 'bastard'
came up a lot in those imaginary conversations. Who did
he think he was, asking her out when she'd already said
no? And what sort of woman did he think she was?
'Is this the latest wedding dress brochure?' asked Olivia,
to change the subject. She picked up the glossy brochure
that was lying under a newspaper and flicked through the
pages. Brides in elegant shift dresses and medieval princess
gowns vied for attention on every page. 'These are beautiful.
Which are the three you like best, the ones you were
telling me about?'
Evie glanced at the brochure dispiritedly. She'd lost
interest in wedding dresses for some reason. The medieval
fantasy dress she'd dreamed of for so long no longer gave
her little shivers of delight when she looked at it, imagining
herself at the altar beside Simon in front of awestruck
guests. Until recently, she'd loved day-dreaming about the
wedding. When she was tired and couldn't sleep, imagining
every detail of the day had been her favourite way of
dozing off. But that didn't work anymore. Thinking about
the long-anticipated day just made her strangely edgy and
unable to sleep.
In fact, the only time she'd dreamed about the wedding
at all, recently had been a veritable nightmare where she'd
found herself at the altar wearing a long diaphanous white
nightie, with flowers in her hair, bare feet and - worst of all
- no underwear! Even stranger, when the groom had
turned round to greet her, he wasn't Simon at all. It was
Max bloody Stewart looking like a pirate in the sort of
buccaneer's linen shirt men wore in her favourite novels.
Then he grinned at her, baring those wolf's fangs as if he
was going to sink them into her. After that dream, Evie had
woken up abruptly, sweat beaded to her forehead and her
brushed cotton nightie glued to her body.
'This is so you, Evie.' Olivia showed her a picture of a
Regency-inspired dress that had Jane Austen written all
over it. Demure and sexy, it was just the sort of thing Evie
would look beautiful in.
'Mmmm,' she said listlessly, 'I don't know. I still haven't
sorted out the menus. I don't know why the hotel are so
keen on knowing what we're going to eat now when the
wedding isn't for six months. I can't figure out if we want
poached salmon and Wicklow lamb or trout with almonds
and Beef Wellington. It's so far away to be planning
specifics.'
Olivia looked up from the brochure, jolted by the
depressed tone of her friend's voice.
I thought you were enjoying organising the wedding?'
she said quietly, scanning Evie's face carefully.
Aware that she'd almost revealed something she was
barely able to admit to herself, Evie backtracked. 'Oh, it's
just wedding jitters,' she said hurriedly. That was it, she
told herself. Wedding jitters. Every bride got them.
Olivia was still studying her.
Evie rattled on. 'Poor Simon won't know what to do
with me when we're married,' she said brightly. 'I'm
getting as moody as hell. We still can't decide where to buy
a house when we're married. He wants a larger town
house, something near the city, and I'd prefer to move out,
maybe to Dun Laoghaire.' She beamed at Olivia, as if
whether to live within a stone's throw of the city or miles
outside it was the biggest issue in her life at that moment.
She couldn't say, daren't even think, that there was any
other issue throbbing in her head like an abscess. An
abscess named Max Stewart.
'So, what does Stephen think of all this television
stardom?' she asked cheerily, getting up to make more tea.
It was Olivia's turn to look guarded. 'That's the other big
problem,' she said slowly. 'He doesn't know.'
'Stephen doesn't know?' Evie asked in shock. 'Do you
think that's wise?'
Olivia put her head in her hands and groaned. 'I know, I
know. I should have told him. I knew he'd hate me doing it
and put me off, or at least convince me I'd be so hopelessly
bad that I'd be bound to make a mess of it. Destroying my
self-confidence is what he does best nowadays.'
Evie stopped messing around with the kettle and sat
down quietly at the table. 'I didn't know things were so
bad,' she said finally.
Olivia fiddled with a cuticle, not meeting her best
friend's eyes. 'It's not the sort of thing you talk about, is it?'
'It is to me,' Evie said earnestly.
Olivia shrugged. 'I couldn't tell you, I couldn't tell
anyone. I don't know where it all started to go wrong, but
it did and it has.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'I love him,
Evie, but he doesn't love me, not really.' The words came
out in a rush. 'He loves having a wife who looks like me
and knows how to say the right things but he doesn't
care anymore about me as a person. It's as if I don't exist,
I'm just another thing in his life. Like the car or the
apartment or his state-of-the-art laptop. I hate it all.' She
broke off, tears running down her face now. 'I don't say
anything to him now,' she continued. 'I let him go on
believing that it's all OK when inside I hate him sometimes.
That's why I did this, the television audition.
Because I thought it'd show him I could do something,
that I wasn't stupid.'
'You're not stupid!' Evie said, putting her arms around
Olivia.
'I feel stupid,' she howled. 'Stupid and useless. I can't
even teach my classes without screwing up, I can't do anything. Why do I think I can do this?'
While she cried on to her friend's shoulder, Evie held
her tightly, wishing there was more she could do or say.
But there was nothing, apart from 'I told you so', which
wouldn't have been true, anyhow.
Evie had never really liked Stephen, wary of his brusque
self-assurance and suspicious of the way he'd treated
Olivia. He was domineering and almost obsessive about
her from the very start. The way he watched her across a
room made some people smile fondly but it had made Evie
wrinkle up her nose in distrust. A man who trusted and
loved a woman didn't stare at her like a gaoler guarding a
prisoner on day release, which was the way Stephen looked
at Olivia.
But Evie had never said any of this. She'd never said,
'Have you really thought about this?' The type of plain
speaking she was renowned for. Olivia had been so very in
love with him. Anyway, still reeling from Tony's death,
Evie hadn't exactly considered herself an expert in male/
female relations at the time, so she'd kept her misgivings to
herself. And watched her closest friend carefully for signs
that the fairy-tale wedding hadn't worked out.
As the years went by, Evie convinced herself that
Stephen and Olivia were happy together, which just went
to show that you never knew what really went on behind
closed doors.
'Do you want to talk about it?' she asked now. 'Stay for
dinner and we'll talk, you can't go home now. You need to
get this off your chest.'
Olivia sat up, wiping her tear-streaked face. 'No, I can't,
Evie. Thank you for the offer, but I've got to get home.'
She was visibly pulling herself together, dragging on the
'happy' face she presented to the world.
'Olivia,' said Evie sharply, 'stop it. That's what you've
been doing for years and you never told me. Now stop and
talk,' she commanded. 'You've got to or you'll go mad!'
Olivia dropped her facade and her lovely face looked
instantly ravaged, the mask gone and hollows of misery left
in its place. Haunted eyes stared out at her friend.
'Oh, Livvy,' Evie cried softly. 'You can't go on like this.'
'What else can I do?' she asked. 'Leave him? Be realistic,
Evie. I can barely cope with the world with him - what
would I be like without him?'
'You could be your old self again, the person you were
before Stephen.'
With a tissue, Olivia dabbed away the tears from her
eyes. 'I don't know who that person was,' she said dully. 'I
don't know what sort of person I am now. At the wedding I told Max that Stephen didn't see me as a person
anymore.' She gave a little laugh. 'That's not exactly true. I
don't know who I am any more, so I can hardly blame my
husband for not knowing, can I?'
'I want to help,' Evie said anxiously.
Olivia shrugged. 'You can't help me, not really. I have to
do it myself..."
'Please, Livvy, don't shut me out. Let me help,' interrupted
Evie.
'I won't shut you out, I promise. Who knows? You may
have to put me up on your sofa for a few nights.' Olivia got
up from the table, letting her words sink in. "I really have to
go now. I know I have to tell Stephen about all this
sometime.' She gestured to the heavy television makeup.
'But not tonight. He's got some people over from Germany
and they're coming to dinner, so I'm going home to play the
good hostess with something exotic for dinner and a perennial
smile on my Stepford Wife face.'
Her voice was bitter. There was nothing Evie could say.
They hugged goodbye and Olivia got into her car. With
sunglasses hiding her eyes and her perfect profile outlined
in the low March sun, she looked the picture of an elegant
working woman as she drove away from Evie's front gate.
Looking into her pocket handkerchief-sized front garden,
Evie watched a fat pigeon waddling around digging for
worms in the soft clay. Unease sat in her belly like a rich
meal, curdling ominously. She thought about Olivia and
Stephen, on the surface the perfect couple. Underneath it
was all a sham.
Was she mad to want to get married? Evie wondered.
She'd been happy enough with her life so far.
Being half of a couple had seemed so important for such
a long time. Or maybe it was just that not being half of a
couple made it seem to matter. Was that why she and
Simon had clicked - because they'd both desperately
wanted someone else and didn't really care who? In any
case Simon was practically married to his mother, which
was why he'd taken so bloody long to decide actually to do
the desperate deed and ask someone to marry him.
He'd been burned once before, he'd told her. A long
relationship that hadn't worked out. Perhaps whoever she
was hadn't been able to compete with his maternal devotion. Evie watched the pigeon mournfully. Perhaps they
were both making a huge mistake.
She shook her head as if driving the thought from her
mind. Daft, that's what she was. Plain daft. She was
marrying Simon in September and that was that.

CHAPTER TEN

It was five to three. Still. Evie wondered if she was in the
Twilight Zone because no matter how often she looked at
the alarm clock, the time seemed to change with brain
numbing slowness. Not looking at it was obviously the
answer. She sat up in bed, shook her pillow around a bit
and sank back down on to the cool side of the bed,
determined not to look at the time. Four minutes to three
winked the luminous numbers on the clock.
Evie felt like crying. She was exhausted and yet she
couldn't sleep. The memory of Olivia's weary face earlier
that day kept running through her mind; Olivia and
Stephen, Evie and Simon, an ill-fated foursome and their
problems. And Max. No matter how she tried to wrench
him from her mind, he was still there. Smiling wolfishly at
her, eyes caressing her in a way Simon's never did.
Shit! She sat up again, feverish and furious. She had to
stop thinking about bloody Max Stewart. It was positively
sickening. His presence loomed over her even when she
was in bed, never mind what it did to her when she was up. Since she'd met him a week ago, he was everywhere:
grinning at her, taunting her, eyebrows raised in amusement
as if he could see the effect he was having upon her.
It was no use trying to sleep. She might as well get some
hot milk and read.
Trying not to think of how shattered she'd be after a
sleepless night, Evie warmed some milk and brought it up
to bed. Propped up with pillows, she picked her book
up and tried to read. Even that didn't work.
The dashing South American polo player in Venetia's
Victory reminded her of Max; he had the same glinting
eyes, the same devil-may-care attitude. Every time the polo
player crushed Venetia to his chest with his powerful
mallet-wielding arm, Evie could see herself being crushed
against Max. She threw the book down in disgust and
rummaged through her bedside locker for a replacement.
Jammed at the back was one of Cara's forensic pathologist
thrillers. Cara adored blood, gore and serial killers and had
been trying to get her sister to read one for years. Evie had
resisted until now because she hated the thought of
reading about murderers preying on vulnerable women
before she went to sleep. Strangely enough, the idea
seemed very appealing now. Surely an axe murderer would
be able to get Max out of the picture?
By five-thirty, she was a serial thriller convert - and very,
very tired. How come you can only sleep when morning is
lurking around the corner? she thought exhaustedly, sinking
her head on to the pillow as the birds began to sing
energetically outside the window.
They appeared to be singing the same song when the
alarm clock erupted with the breakfast show and Tom
Jones purring 'Kiss' at seven-fifteen. Evie dragged herself
out of bed, yelled at Rosie to get up, and yawned her way
down the stairs, only just avoiding tripping over her
dressing-gown belt. Strong coffee and some breakfast
didn't help her as much as she'd hoped.
'You look wrecked, Mum,' Rosie remarked, the picture
of health as she bounced into the kitchen in her school
uniform.
'Couldn't sleep,' Evie mumbled, head bent over her
plate, 'and I've a terrible day ahead. The auditors are in.
God, I could sleep for a week.'
'Caffeine tablets,' pronounced Rosie, 'that's what you
need, Mum. They're ace at waking you up. All the girls use
them for exams.'
Normally, Evie would have said something about how
she hoped Rosie would never use any sort of chemical
stimulant. This morning, however, she only just managed
to stop herself from asking where she could get her hands
on some caffeine tablets and how many could you take for
maximum effect.
Rosie switched on the radio, which immediately foretold
horrible delays on Evie's route to the office.
'I don't believe it,' she mumbled miserably, ignoring her
usual rule about only having one cup of coffee in the
morning and pouring herself another. Her cellulite would
just have to like it or lump it.
'Poor Mum.' Rosie gave her an affectionate hug. 'Now if
you'd teach me how to drive your car, I could drop you
into work and you wouldn't have to face the traffic,' she
added with a mischievous grin.
Her mother groaned. 'Have you ever thought of going
into the legal profession, Rosie? You're an expert at arguing
at the right time and the right place.'
Grinning, she shoved a couple of slices of bread into the
toaster. 'Is that a yes?'
'I'd be the wrong person to teach you to drive,' Evie
pointed out. 'Maybe Simon could teach you.'
Rosie grimaced. 'Not Simon. Maybe Grandpops would.
Or perhaps Vida! She brightened up at the thought of
driving Vida's stately Lexus and impressing all the young
fellas in Ballymoreen who hung around the monument.
She could picture them with their mouths open in
astonishment and admiration, particularly that guy who
lived above the post office. It was a pleasing picture.
'What's wrong with Simon teaching you?' her mother
asked irritably.
'Oh, Mum, come on,' said Rosie. 'You know . . .' She
broke off without finishing the sentence.
'No, I don't know.' Evie was cross and very tired.
Rosie sighed. 'Let's not have a fight.'
'This isn't a fight,' Evie said grumpily. 'I simply wish you
didn't have such an attitude about Simon.'
'I don't have an attitude about Simon,' her daughter
retorted.
'You do,' Evie snapped back.
'It's not an attitude,' Rosie said, taking her coffee cup off
the table. 'I just don't like him, that's all.' She slammed the
kitchen door and a millisecond later her toast sprang up
from the toaster with a twang.
What have you done? Evie groaned to herself. Just
because you're in a bad mood, you don't have to take it
out on poor Rosie.
She quickly buttered and marmaladed Rosie's toast and
took it up to her daughter's room. The door, usually open
in the morning because the two of them chattered nineteen
to the dozen as they showered and dressed, was
ominously shut.
'Rosie love, I'm sorry. I'm grumpy this morning because
I couldn't sleep,' Evie said from the landing.
The door opened. Slightly mollified, Rosie took the toast
from her mother.
'I am sorry,' Evie said again.
'It's OK,' Rosie said. 'I'm sorry about what I said too.
About Simon. I don't dislike him,' she lied. 'I just don't
want him to teach me how to drive. I'd love you to do it.'
Evie smiled for the first time that morning. 'I don't know why, love, when I'm such a bad-tempered old cow of a
mother. But I'll teach you, I promise. When you've finished
your exams, I'll put your name on the insurance. It'll be my
post-exam present to you.'
'Ace!' said Rosie joyfully.
'Ace' was the word of the moment, Evie thought,
shuffling back into the bathroom for her shower. She felt
anything but ace at that precise moment.
Sitting at her desk at nine on the dot, she still felt
spectacularly aceless. She felt terrible, in fact, and she was
damn' sure that she looked it too, particularly as she'd
been too tired to wash her hair. Greasy hair, a 'safe' black
suit and a pale, exhausted face meant she looked as if she'd
just arrived from a funeral, a fact Lorraine remarked upon.
'Lord, Evie, what were you up to last night?' she
demanded, resplendent in an eye-catching red mini in
honour of the auditors' visit. The last time they had been
at Wentworth Alarms, she'd spent three thrilling days
flirting with the junior member of the team, a Diet-Coke
guy lookalike.
'Nothing exciting,' sighed Evie, who wasn't looking
forward to a day of the auditors' demands combined with
Davis in the inevitable bad temper. Since he'd been
diagnosed with ME, he was only in the office on rare
occasions and then he was like a hungover JCB driver:
cross and determined to take it out on everyone.
'You can tell me what you were doing,' Lorraine said
saucily. 'Your Simon doesn't look like he's a goer but he
must be. The silent ones are always the worst, that's what
my mam says.'
The thought of placid Simon being described as a goer
brought a wry grin to Evie's face.
'I couldn't sleep, that's all.'
Lorraine winked. 'I bet.'
The morning passed with interminable slowness. Davis
failed to arrive at work and when Evie rang him at home
the answer machine switched on every time. The financial
director, Davis's nephew and proof positive that nepotism
was generally a mistake, did his best to help but only
succeeded in looking bewildered most of the time, and
asking Evie where everything was.
'I wish I'd studied bloody accountancy,' she hissed at
Lorraine finally.
'I wish I'd stayed at home today,' the girl answered
wretchedly. The Diet Coke guy from the previous year
hadn't turned up. His replacement had the sort of bad
breath that could knock you out at fifty yards.
Neither of them had got anywhere near either the kettle
or the ladies' loo all morning and when lunchtime arrived,
they were both shattered. At one o'clock, Evie leaned back
in her chair and decided for once to ignore her phone as it
rang incessantly.
'I'm too tired to put on my lipstick,' Lorraine said,
lolling in her swivel chair, her feet on the desk. 'Will I
order us a pizza so we don't have to go out?'
Evie was about to say 'yes' when the sales department's
secretary stuck her head around the door.
'Evie,' she said, round-eyed, 'your lunch date is in
reception. And he's gorgeous. Who is he? We're all dying to
know.'
Evie's heart skipped a beat. She didn't have a lunch date.
But she could think of only one person who'd have the
female staff of Wentworth Alarms in such a tizzy: Max
Stewart.
'I can't imagine,' she said, trying to look nonchalant, and
picked up her still-buzzing phone.
It was the receptionist.
'There's someone waiting for me?' Evie asked coolly.
'Max Stewart,' breathed the receptionist, with the same
reverence she reserved for speaking about Mel Gibson.
'Tell him I'll be down in ten minutes.'
'Who is it?' squeaked Lorraine, knowing something was
up from the way Evie's eyes shone.
'My stepbrother,' she said as calmly as possible.
'Stepbrother?' Lorraine repeated incredulously. 'You
never mentioned him.'
'Didn't I?' Evie scooped up her handbag and wondered
if it would be a complete giveaway if she asked Lorraine
for a squirt of her perfume and a lend of some concealer to
hide the suitcases under her eyes. It probably would, but
who cared?
Trying to calm the excitement that bubbled up inside
her, Evie did her best to hide the ravages of a sleepless
night. At least she didn't need blusher, she thought wryly;
her cheeks were already rosy from a mixture of pleasure
and embarrassment. Then she began to worry. What if
Simon rang and was told she was seeing Max Stewart for
lunch? What if he drove past unexpectedly and discovered
them in the pub?
Well, Evie decided firmly, she wouldn't go out to lunch
with Max, it was that simple. He hadn't made an appointment,
so she wouldn't go with him. She'd make an excuse.
Squinting as she zigzagged her dark brown mascara
wand up her lashes, she realised that it wasn't so simple.
She wanted to go. It would all be perfectly innocent, she
told herself. He was her stepbrother after all. What could
possibly be wrong with meeting him for lunch?
But as she hurried to the stairs, eyes shining and a
bounce in her step for the first time that day, Evie knew in
her heart of hearts there was nothing innocent about
Max's visit - or about her reaction to it.
At the bottom of the stairs, she peered into reception
through the glass fire doors. Her heart swelled instinctively
at the sight of him. Max was sitting in one of the squashy
chairs, a giant thing she could never sit in comfortably
because she was too short.
He dwarfed it, long denim-clad legs sticking out across
the room. He looked casual today, wearing a tan suede
jacket with suede workmen's boots. She could see that
much from behind the paper he was reading, his face set in
concentration.
Like a child gazing at a spaniel puppy in a pet shop
window, Evie stared at Max. The rock-breaker jaw was set
firm as he read, dark brows hid his eyes. He looked
different out of his elegant suit: less formidable, younger.
Then he saw her.
He unfurled himself and got to his feet. Evie shoved the
fire door open and hoped he didn't realise she'd been
watching him for a few moments.
The receptionist and her lunch-time replacement were
staring at Max with unabashed curiosity.
'Evie, your . . . guest,' the receptionist said, her lip-glossed
smile on full beam, obviously dying to be introduced.
'Thanks,' Evie said politely, equally determined not to
introduce her. She stood in front of Max but didn't make a
move to hold out her hand.
'Evie, how nice to see you.' He smiled at her, a warm,
glinting smile that lit up his cobalt eyes as if somebody had
flicked on a button inside him.
Evie blinked. She hadn't imagined how attractive he
was. He was devastating in the flesh, better than she'd
remembered, better than in her bizarre wedding dream.
'I was in the area on business and thought I'd see if you
were free for lunch,' he said.
'Well, I wasn't going to . . .' began Evie, suddenly
remembering how she'd meant to tell Max where to go if ever she saw him again. 'I have a lot of work to do this
afternoon.'
'Please, I'd like to talk to you.'
The way he said 'please' did it. A low, soft caressing
sound that slithered up her spine as if he'd just asked her
to take all her clothes off and get into a Jacuzzi with him
to play doctors and nurses.
She couldn't resist. 'OK.'
Max pushed the front door open and they went outside.
Evie could feel fascinated eyes burning into her back as
they walked towards Max's car. She half-turned to look at
the office and saw Lorraine, the receptionist and the sales
secretary all peering out past the reception blinds like
spectators at a tennis match eagerly waiting for the umpire
to call a shot.
'Do they always do that?' Max asked innocently, looking
back too.
'They're waiting for the sandwich delivery man,' Evie
fibbed. 'He's late and they're ravenous.'
'They're probably wondering who I am,' he remarked.
Evie laughed at his perceptive reading of the situation.
'You have no idea,' she said, shaking her head ruefully. 'I'll
probably be on the six o'clock news for going off with a strange man at lunch. Nearly-married woman seen getting
into flash car with stranger - police alert!'
'But I'm your stepbrother,' he pointed out in a mock
innocent voice, opening the passenger door of the sports
car for Evie.
'So you are,' she replied sweetly, shutting her door with
a resounding bang.
'Where's a good spot for lunch round here?' he asked,
driving out the gate.
'I assumed you knew this area since you said you were
around on business?' Evie asked suspiciously.
The laughing eyes crinkled up with amusement. 'You've
caught me out, I'm afraid. I've never been in this neck of
the woods before. I came to see you. And not because
you're my dear stepsister, either,' he added in a tone that
made Evie feel very hot suddenly.
'The pub at the roundabout is nice,' she said, her voice
sounding an octave higher with nerves. 'Turn left here and
take the next two rights.'
She sank back into her seat, eyes fixed straight ahead.
She didn't even want to look at Max. What had she got
herself into? She should have sent him away, refused to
meet him, bluntly told him he had a nerve turning up after
she'd told him she was engaged. She'd never handle him,
he wasn't like Simon: easily dealt with. Max was a whole
different kettle of fish. Piranhas, in fact.
'Difficult day?' he asked companionably, maneuvering
the car into a parking space.
Evie, who'd been expecting a different sort of conversation,
shot him a sideways look.
'Yes,' she said reluctantly. She was too edgy to be
comfortable.
'The receptionist said you had the auditors in,' he said,
still not looking at her as he parked.
'Just as well she isn't working for MI5,' Evie said, raising
her eyes to heaven.
'She was only making conversation,' he said mildly.
'I suppose.'
They joined the soup and sandwiches queue in the pub.
To cover up what she felt was an uneasy silence, Evie
found herself rattling on about the dreaded auditors and
how difficult it was dealing with them when her boss was
out of the office.
At first, her chatter was stilted but as they sat down with
their food, she began to enjoy telling him about her manic day. Max was surprisingly easy to talk to, or maybe it was
that he really listened. He asked the right sort of questions
and was interested in her answers.
When she'd finished telling him about Tom, Davis's
dopey nephew, he told her about a television production
company he'd once worked in where the boss appointed
his four sons as middle managers: 'Each one more stupid
than the last,' Max said, grinning. 'None of them could
make a decision about making programmes and when you
got the four of them together, they just fought. They were
like crabs in a bucket - none would let the others do
anything independently. They'd drag him back in so they
could argue some more about where to get the paper cups
for the water dispenser or what colour to paint tie
conference room. Their father had this happy idea of
letting them take over the company when he retired but
after six months he fired them all.'
'What happened then?' asked Evie.
'My partner and I bought the company and within a year
we'd turned it around so profits were up fifty percent. Then,
the four of them tried to sue us, saying we'd taken away
their birthright and that if their father had given them time,
they'd have turned a profit.' He laughed at the memory.
Evie swallowed a bite of her sandwich. 'Is that the
company you have now?' she asked, eager to know more
about him but not wanting to appear too interested.
He shook his head. 'I still own shares in it but somebody
else runs it. My new company is called DWS Productions.
We make mini-series. The old company makes technical
videos, there's a lot of money in that. But producing
mini-series is more fun.'
'I'd no idea that's what you did!' Evie exclaimed. 'Your
mother never really explained what sort of producing you
did. I had visions of tacky game shows.'
He allowed himself to smile at the comment.
'Mini-series, huh?' Evie added. 'What are you working
on now? What have you done?'
'We've just finished a production about the famine and
now we're in pre-production for a Gone With The Wind
type series, set in Ireland and Louisiana.'
'You must travel all the time?' Evie said, sandwich
forgotten. This was so exciting, far more thrilling than
stories about auditors and alarm companies.
'I spent six months in Australia for the famine one, The
Wilderness,' Max explained. 'We made it primarily for the
American and Australian markets. The new one is more
European. My partner is going to handle most of the
American side of things which means I'll have more time
to myself. I've travelled nine months of every year for the
past ten years. I need a break. I'm thinking of buying a
house in Ireland and putting down some roots.' He pushed
his plate away and smiled at Evie.
'Sorry to change the subject, but I know you've got to
get back to work. Do you know why I've asked you out?'
he asked abruptly, eyes boring into hers.
Evie could feel her pulse rushing along like a freight
train. She could imagine what he was going to say. Because I can't stop thinking about you, Evie. Because I'm crazy about
you. That's why I want to spend more time in Ireland, to be close to you. I know you're engaged but. . .
'. . . I don't know what you'd think about that,' he was
saying.
'Sorry, what?' Evie reined in her imagination, which was
now on a windswept beach with herself and Max in a
clinch beside frothing waves and a sandy cove that was a
dead ringer for the one in From Here To Eternity.
One of Max's eyebrows veered upwards. 'I was telling
you about this idea I have for a summer holiday to bring both families together. I know you usually spend some
time with your father during the summer and I thought
we could combine that with my gift to the newly weds.'
'What gift . . . combine what?' asked Evie stupidly. What
was he talking about?
A villa in Spain. I've booked a villa in the south of Spain
for two weeks at the end of July. It's my wedding present
to Andrew and my mother but your dad is understandably
worried because you normally spend time with him for the
summer. Mother doesn't want to upset things, she knows
their marriage was difficult for you to accept, so I thought
that if you, Rosie and Cara came with us, it'd solve lots of
problems.'
'With us?' Evie asked again.
'Naturally I was going to go too. If you don't object?'
There was that grin again, a wry grin, as if he knew what
she'd been thinking. Wrongly thinking.
'I don't know,' Evie said coolly, recovering her composure
somewhat. 'Where in the south of Spain?' she asked,
as if she were intimately acquainted with every centimetre
of the Costa del Sol instead of only knowing it from
holiday programmes on TV.
'Puerto Banus.'
'Oh,' she said in a blase tone, making a mental note to
look it up on the atlas when she went home. 'I'll have to
think about it.' She drained her coffee cup in one go.
'It's a beautiful part of the coast,' he said, as if reading
her mind, 'and it'd be a wonderful chance for us all to get
to know each other.'
Evie eyed him suspiciously.
The amused expression disappeared from his eyes. 'I
mean that,' he said softly. 'I'd love to get to know you better.'
The way he looked at her was like nothing she'd ever
experienced before. Those incredibly blue eyes roamed
over her face, drinking her in. The moment was unbearably
charged, incredibly seductive. Evie felt the rest of the
world melt away, as if there was no other sound or
movement around - just her and Max, his gaze fastened
on hers.
'Rosie, Cara and me?' she asked, deliberately misunderstanding
him.
'Just you.'
'Oh;
He was speaking in a very low voice now, the words
electric. 'I know what you said last week at the wedding
but I wanted to see you again.'
She looked away, as if he could see inside her and know
she'd been longing to see him too. To talk to him, laugh
with him, touch him.
'You never answered my note.'
'How could I?' she demanded fiercely. 'You know about
Simon, how could I possibly meet you?'
They were so close now, both leaning across the table
towards the other, almost touching. Intimate, like lovers.
Evie didn't know what she was going to do next. It was
heady, this feeling of being carried away with emotion.
That's what Max did to her - changed her, made her like
someone different, someone who followed her instincts
and not a prepared script.
'I know you're engaged, Evie, but I can't help the way I
felt about you the moment I met you. I thought you felt the same way too?'
His hand reached across the table to hers. She watched
it, fascinated. His skin was a golden tanned colour, the
strong wrist covered with surprisingly pale hairs for a man
with such a shock of Italianate dark hair.
'Evie!' shrieked someone. 'Fancy meeting you here!'
Startled, she jerked back in her seat and looked up to see one
of Simon's colleagues bearing down on them, a tray
jammed with a plate of chips and sausages in his hands. Younger than Simon but a partner in the firm, Phillip
Knight was always promising Simon he'd play squash in
the evenings. But judging from the man's vast stomach, it
seemed unlikely. Of all the people to meet now.
'Phillip, how nice to see you,' Evie said dishonestly.
'Phillip works with Simon, my fiance,' she added with
heavy emphasis for Max's benefit.
She felt a tell-tale flush of guilt rise from her throat to
her face like a crimson tide. Phillip, though not the
brightest man she'd ever met, would be sure to mention to
Simon that he'd met Evie with Max and then where would
she be? Nobody with even a quarter of a brain cell could
misconstrue the body language between them. She grinned
inanely at Phillip, shock making her incapable of saying
anything else. OmiGod, omiGod, went a little voice in her
head over and over again.
Phillip stood there with his tray clutched to his vast,
pin-stripe stomach, obviously waiting to be invited to sit
down at their table. Beautifully brought up and endlessly
polite, he wouldn't have dreamed of plonking himself
down without being asked. Which was why Evie found
dinner in Phillip's house such a nightmare. She was always
afraid she'd make a terrible faux-pas by using the wrong
family-crested knife for her bread.
In one swift movement, Max got to his feet.
'Max Stewart,' he introduced himself genially, 'Evie's
new . . .' he hesitated, as if he had only just come up with
the notion '. . . stepbrother. Imagine that! Her father and
my mother have just got married and we're hatching a
plan for the newly weds.' He slapped Phillip on the arm, as
if letting him in on some wonderful secret.
The tray wobbled.
'Phillip Knight,' he said formally, still holding his tray.
'Yes,' Evie said brightly. 'A wedding gift! Gosh, it won't
be too long until it's Simon and me getting hitched!' She
got up and slapped Phillip's other arm heartily. The tray
wobbled some more.
'I'd love to stay, Phillip,' she gushed, 'but I've got to get
back to work and Max has got to . . .' she faltered '. . .
pick up his wife from the . . .'
Both men were looking at her expectantly.
'The hospital!' she said triumphantly, it being the first
thing that had come into her head. And a wife. That was a
master stroke, she thought. Phillip couldn't get the wrong
idea now.
She ignored Max's face, which was a picture of barely
suppressed mirth.
'Is she working in the hospital?' Phillip said politely.
Evie blinked a couple of times. 'No, she's ... er . . .
having a baby!' Even better. What man would be flirting
with his stepsister when his wife was expecting?
'Lovely. Congratulations,' Phillip said.
Max took the tray from him and put it on the table.
'Thanks,' he said. 'I'd better go. Mia hates to be kept
waiting. Especially,' he glanced at Evie mischievously, 'as
she's the size of a house.'
'Huge,' supplied Evie, rounding both arms to make a
pregnant belly gesture that would surely signify a hippo
baby instead of a human one.
She pecked Phillip's cheek, smiled as brightly as she
could and sailed away, Max in her wake.
He managed to stay silent until they reached the car
park. 'Thanks for the pregnant wife,' he said conversationally.
'That was a neat touch.'
'I thought so myself.' Evie said lightly.
'Did she have to be quite so enormously pregnant or, indeed, did we have to be married?' he inquired. I'm only
asking because Simon will hear about it and will probably
wonder what I've done with the said pregnant wife,
especially when I don't bring her to Spain. I don't want to
get a reputation as a complete bastard.'
'I was desperate,' hissed Evie.
'I could see that. But why lie quite so outrageously?'
'Phillip may be stupid but he's not blind,' she retorted.
And he'd have to be blind not to notice the way we were
sitting so close to one another, staring into each other's
eyes!' Evie shivered and didn't know whether it was from
the shock of seeing Phillip so unexpectedly or the thought
of the conversation she and Max had been having when
he'd showed up.
'Since you now have the perfect alibi for meeting me,
and since I'm officially "safe" because of my pregnant
missus, can we meet again?' Max asked. 'Before the quadruplets
are born, I mean.'
'How can you ask that?' Evie demanded furiously. 'You
can see I can't meet you.'
Max drove into Wentworth's car park. The onlookers
weren't at their posts, Evie noticed idly.
'No, I don't see that you can't meet me,' he said softly,
and turned the ignition off and faced her for the first time,
making her aware of how small the car was inside and how
disturbingly close they were. 'If you don't want to see me
again, that's one thing.' His face was in shadow, the hard
planes shaded in, making him look saturnine, devilish. But
if you're afraid to take the chance, that's different. You do
want to see me, don't you?' he asked, sounding strangely
vulnerable for a moment.
He reached out and touched Evie's full bottom lip,
letting his thumb caress it gently. She closed her eyes
briefly, letting the sensation ripple through her. It was the
most erotic sensation she'd ever felt. Unexpected, unusual.
She could smell his skin, smell the warm, musky maleness
of him, could taste the saltiness of his skin. She almost
kissed his thumb as it rolled lazily over the plumpness of
her mouth. Then she pulled back abruptly. What was she
doing? What was he doing?
'Who the hell do you think you are, touching me like
that, coming into my life and trying to screw it up?' she
screeched at him.
A muscle moved in his jaw, just a tiny flicker.
"I don't want to see you again,' Evie said, her voice
growing hoarse.
He said nothing but just stared at her, his face dark.
'It's impossible for me,' she said in anguish. 'Don't you
understand?' She fumbled with the door and finally
opened it, dragging herself out of the car frantically.
Aware that she could be seen from the office, she tried
to set her face into some sort of normal expression. It was
almost impossible. Her pulse was pounding in her veins
and she wanted to cry, longed to cry. Smile, Evie, she told
herself. Don't cry. Don't look back. She knew he hadn't
driven off yet, could feel him sitting quietly in the car
watching her walk into the office.
The muscles in her neck were corded with the effort of
smiling as she pushed the office door open and marched
straight for the stairs. Please don't let anyone speak to me,
she prayed. Nobody did. She walked up the stairs to her
office slowly, her senses reeling. Had she done the right
thing by sending him away? She had, hadn't she? You
couldn't be engaged and about to be married and have
clandestine meetings with another man, especially a sexy,
single and utterly handsome man. She had done the right
thing, definitely. She was sure of it. But why did it hurt so
much, then? Why did she have a lump in her throat that made her want to sit on the floor and wail? Why did she
want to run back down to the car park, throw herself into
Max's arms and beg him to hold her tightly?
Lorraine's eyes lit up when Evie walked into their office.
'Wow, your stepbrother is something else,' she said. 'He's
a stud. Can you have sex with your stepbrother? No, sorry.
Can I have sex with your stepbrother?' She crowed with
laughter at the idea. 'Craig need never find out, I won't tell
him!'
Evie dug her nails into the palm of her hand and tried to
join in. Even to her own ears, her laughter was very forced.
She'd turned Max down for the second time. He'd never
come back, never bother her again, that was for sure. So
why did she feel so utterly depressed at the thought?

Simon positioned the jack under Evie's rusty Fiesta and
expertly began to elevate the car off the driveway. He'd
taken his sweatshirt off and she could see the muscles in
his back ripple through the thin fabric of his T-shirt. All
that squash made him very lean. Probably too lean, she
thought. He was getting positively scrawny.
He'd never had a big appetite and he wasn't using his
deep fat fryer as much since she'd remarked that she didn't
want to be eating chips morning, noon and night when
they were married.
'It's lucky I noticed this nail in the tyre, Evie,' he said,
only slightly out of breath after the job of unscrewing the
ancient nuts. 'If I hadn't, you'd have ended up with a flat
one day with nobody to change it for you.'
'Yes, thanks, dear,' Evie said, not bothering to point out
that changing a tyre wasn't beyond her capabilities. She
was glad he'd noticed the nail when the car was parked
safely on her driveway but didn't want to spend the entire
evening discussing it. She stood behind Simon and stared
absently over the roof of her car. It was a warm March
evening and Countess Street was waking up after a long
winter where the residents had been forced to stay indoors.
A spurt of Mediterranean heat and a balmy evening meant
the place was positively buzzing.
Evie's next-door neighbours were cutting the grass; a
man two doors down was labouring over his overgrown
borders: a couple pushed a pram leisurely on the opposite
footpath and three young boys played soccer on the road,
the ball whacking into the trees regularly. It was time she
cut the grass, Evie realised, looking at the tiny lawn she
rarely had time to do anything with. The heathers she'd
planted two years ago looked terribly straggly, as if they
wouldn't last a wet week on a genuine Highland bank. She
ought to replace them. Especially if she was going to sell
up to buy a place with Simon. Evie felt a heaviness in her
chest at the idea.
'When did you last have it serviced?' he asked. 'You're
probably due one, you know. Well, actually, you should
think of getting a new car, Evie. Or a newer one. Of course,
when we're married, you'll be able to drive mine.' He
stood up and beamed at her.
She smiled back, a fleeting smile, and then busied herself
pulling a weed from the rock-hard flower bed beside the
gate. 'Look at this,' she muttered, 'I've really got to do
some weeding.'
Simon bent back down to roll one tyre off and replace it
with Evie's spare. 'Don't forget to get this fixed,' he said
gravely.
She controlled the impulse to hit him with the tyre iron.
By the time she'd pulled up most of the weeds in that
bed, Simon had gone inside to wash his hands and had
made a cafetiere of coffee. Irritated that he'd made coffee
at eight in the evening, despite the fact that she hadn't slept at all the night before and could do without an
injection of caffeine, Evie took a cup and a biscuit.
Simon sat at the kitchen table, lost in the sports supplement.
'Do
you ever wonder why people fall in love?' Evie
asked idly. 'There are millions of people in the world and
then we find one and that's it. It's so ... random.'
Simon ruffled her hair affectionately without looking up
from his paper. 'You're always dreaming, Evie,' he said
fondly.
'I don't mean it like that,' she pressed on. 'You know how
do we find the right person? Lorraine and I were
talking about it today. Does true love really exist?' She
gave a little laugh, as if talking off the top of her head.
Simon stopped reading about Inter Milan's most recent
million-pound transfer for a moment. 'You're such a
romantic, Evie. I've got a more cynical view of life. I've
always believed you meet someone and then fall in love
with them, whatever that is,' he added. 'You know, gradually.
It's about trust and familiarity. Like my parents,' he
said thoughtfully. 'I don't think they were madly "in love",
as you'd say, but they grew to love each other. She still
misses him, you know.'
'Yes, I see what you mean,' Evie said faintly. But Simon
had gone back to European football.
Trust and familiarity, he'd said. Nothing about passion,
the spark of electricity that threatened to overwhelm you
or a fire that burned deep in your soul.
Evie sipped her coffee and gazed blankly into the middle
distance, for once not seeing bits of the kitchen that
needed a good going over with cream cleanser and a
J-cloth. She wanted fierce passion and Simon wanted a
kind companion, someone to sit in front of the telly with
or play bridge with in the distant future. That was the
amazing thing - she really did want fierce, intense passion;
that flooding feeling of desire and longing rushing over her
like a tidal wave.
For years, she'd read about it, immersing herself in the
fantasy world of beautiful women and sensual, cruel men,
and daydreaming about being one of the heroines in her
stories. But that's all it had been: a daydream, a fantasy.
Then, for some reason, she'd begun to want that in real
life, passion and hunger and excitement. Well, not for some
reason. She knew the reason. It was six foot something of
laughing, almost mocking eyes and a dark face that lit up
when Max saw her.
'It's time for the news,' Simon announced, looking at his
watch. 'Shall we put it on?'
They watched the news at nine in the sitting room,
Evie's feet on the coffee table and her mind elsewhere. The
weatherman was forecasting another sunny day when
Simon nuzzled Evie's neck hopefully.
'What time is Rosie due back?' he asked in muffled tones,
his mouth buried in his fiancee's neck, inhaling the faint
scent of Anais Anais. Ordinarily, Evie loved him kissing her
neck: it was one of her most erogenous zones. Tonight, it felt
stiff, very unerogenous, not sensitive to kissing.
'Very soon,' she said. 'Jenny's mother is dropping her
home before ten. They've been studying together. Anyway,
Simon, I can't right now . . .' She paused delicately. 'It's
that time of the month,' she said, knowing very well he
wouldn't know she was lying.
Enough said. Simon sat up as if he'd been bitten by a
wasp. He really was so incredibly inexperienced when it
came to women, she thought with a rush of irritation. And
so gullible.
How many periods did he think women had every
month - two? She'd only just got over one and had had the most terrible cramps, but Simon wouldn't know that. Just
mention 'women's problems' and sheer embarrassment
meant his brain ceased to function.
She remembered Rosie giggling while she'd told her
about a male maths teacher in school who went puce at
the very thought of any female gynaecological difficulty.
Rosie claimed that all you had to do to get out of maths
was stand in front of the teacher, press one hand to your
abdomen and moan about 'not feeling very well, sir'.
'You're out the door in a shot to the nurse,' Rosie cackled.
'That's terrible, Rosie,' Evie had exclaimed. 'Women
fought long enough not to be considered the weaker sex
and you'll put the cause of feminism back hundreds of
years by that sort of "I'm a poor little girl" carry on.'
'Aw, Mum, we've got to suffer periods, we might as well
get some benefit out of them,' joked Rosie. 'Anyway, that's
the new feminism - using everything to get what you want,
the way men always have.'
Evie took a quick sideways glance at Simon now. She
couldn't imagine him being ruthless to get what he
wanted. Not like Max.
'Sorry, darling,' she said, putting a hand on his.
'It's all right,' he said awkwardly. 'Shall we watch the
film or,' his narrow face became animated, 'there's a
programme on about the Cold War.'
'Cold War, definitely,' Evie replied quickly, hoping
Simon wouldn't begin to make comparisons between the
Berlin Wall and the one which had suddenly grown up
between them. She snuggled against him and tucked her
feet up under her on the couch. 'This is lovely, isn't it?' she
said and wondered for whose benefit she'd said that. Hers,
to convince herself it was lovely? Or Simon's?
Rosie drifted in at ten, looking far too relaxed and happy
to have been studying English poetry in Jenny's house. Her
sloe-black eyes gleamed with some secret Evie vowed to
winkle out of her when Simon left.
But Rosie took one look at what was on the TV and
announced she was going to bed. 'I'm tired, Mum,' she
said, giving Evie a kiss and pointedly avoiding saying
goodnight to Simon. Evie was too distracted to glare at her
angrily.
By the time Simon left, Rosie's light was off and Evie
had to go to bed without discovering what mysteries were
tumbling around in her daughter's beautiful head. It had to
be a boy. Who else would put that sort of dreamy look on
Rosie's face? Had she really been studying with Jenny and
had Jenny's mother dropped her home? If not, where
exactly had she been hanging out? Questions without
comforting answers rushed through Evie's head. She had
to trust Rosie. After all she was seventeen, not a child.
Mothers who couldn't let their children grow up lived in
the worst kind of dream world, Evie had always thought.
But theory and reality were very different.
Rosie had never had a serious boyfriend before, apart
from dates with a selection of guys who never quite
measured up to her exacting standards and didn't last
beyond one trip to the cinema.
The positive side of this was that Evie had always been
convinced none of these rejected suitors would ever make
her strong-willed daughter do anything she didn't want to.
Rosie was obstinate, almost bullheaded. No mere callow
youth could lead a girl like that into trouble. But a guy
who lit her face up, that was another matter entirely. Evie
twisted and turned in her bed for the second night in a
row. When she'd fretted for at least an hour about Rosie,
she moved on to Max and her encounter with him.
This wasn't a game anymore. Not a fantasy from one of
her romantic novels. This was real. Undeniably, absolutely real. Max wasn't a fictional hero, one who could be put
away when she closed the book at night. He was flesh
and blood, and he was coming between her and Simon.
Poor Simon.
Whatever was she going to do? Forget Max, that was
what she had to do, must do. And as for going to Spain
in two months, forget that altogether. Anyway, she'd only be able to get a week off work what with the time she
was taking for her honeymoon, so she could hardly go,
could she?

Olivia practised. 'Stephen, you know the way you don't
like me teaching those "juvenile delinquents" as you put
it . . .'
No, that sounded dreadful. She shook back her hair,
stared at herself in the bathroom mirror and tried again.
'Darling.' That was better. 'Darling, I know you'll be
cross with me because I kept this a secret, but I've got a
new job. Max Stewart . . .'
No, leave Max out of this, she told herself. Stephen
would hate the fact that Max was involved. 'I heard about
this cookery slot going on that morning television
show . . .'
'Mummy,' called Sasha from her bedroom. 'Daddy's
home.'
Olivia abandoned her how-the-hell-do-I-tell-Stephen
masterclass and ran into the hall.
Stephen stood there with three strange men in suits, all
sniffing the lamb ragout-scented air appreciatively, all
slightly glassy-eyed.
'Darling.' He swept her up in a hug, holding her closely
to the new grey silk suit he'd worn in honour of having the
German businessmen over from head office. He kissed her
on the lips and she could smell red wine on his breath.
Letting her go, but with one unseen hand cupping her
buttock in an uncharacteristic move, he introduced her to
his guests. 'Olivia, my beautiful wife. See,' he added with a
wink to the oldest and obviously most important guest, 'I
told you she was beautiful.'
They all giggled like noisy schoolboys caught reading Playboy behind the bike shed.
'You must forgive us for being late, Mrs MacKenzie,' said
the senior man once the introductions had been completed.
'We took your husband for a celebratory drink once
our business had been concluded.'
'It must have been very successful business for you to
get my husband to the pub,' Olivia teased gently. 'He's not
much of a man for pubs.'
Unseen by the others, Stephen's hand fondled her buttocks
some more through her silky skirt until, embarrassed
the others would notice, Olivia slipped out of his reach.
'If you'd like to come into the dining room, gentlemen,
dinner is ready.'
As she orchestrated the complicated starters in her
immaculate kitchen, Olivia decided that tonight would be
the perfect time to break the news of her impending TV
debut to Stephen.
Slightly drunk, pleased about his business meeting and
obviously as randy as hell, he'd be in the ideal mood to
hear that his wife was starting on a new career. As long as
she could keep the news of her television name from him
for as long as possible, so he was accustomed to the idea of her working on TV before he realised she was using de Were instead of MacKenzie. But that shouldn't be too
hard. Stephen wasn't a heavy drinker and with a bit of
help from her, he'd be merrily pie-eyed by the time she
got him into bed.
She resolved to find the recipe book with the vodka creme sauce in it. Just the thing to add extra flavour to
her between-courses sorbet. She'd eaten it in Switzerland
once and so could claim that the meal was international
in honour of the international guests. Another dollop of
the seriously alcoholic Irish Mist in the pudding should
help too.
An entire bottle of vintage port was gone, along with
two bottles of white wine and three of red by the time the
deeply appreciative guests had been decanted into their
taxi by a swaying Stephen. Olivia stared at the devastation
of her dining-room table and decided that she'd leave the
tidying up for the morning.
'That was wonderful,' said Stephen loudly, when he
arrived back in the apartment and slammed the door.
Olivia winced at the thought that he'd wake Sasha but
reasoned that if the little girl had slept through Stephen's
slurred rendition of 'Seven Drunken Nights', then she'd
sleep through anything.
'I'm going to bed,' he muttered, nearly cannoning into
Olivia's prized peace lily in its Spanish pottery container.
'Mee too,' she said.
He looked surprised. Olivia normally didn't go to bed
while the place was a mess, no matter how late the party.
She always stayed up to fill the dishwasher, wash the
saucepans and restore order to the dinner party mess.
In their bedroom, Olivia pulled off her slingbacks and took
her hair down from the knot she'd tied it into for the dinner
party. She'd only removed one earring when Stephen came
out of the bathroom, clad in shirt and socks that showed off
strong, hairy legs, and took her in his arms. His dark face was
relaxed, his mouth, sometimes harsh, was smiling.
'I like having people over when you cook but I didn't
like the way Gerhard was looking at you,' he murmured,
clumsily unbuttoning her blouse.
'Don't be silly,' Olivia answered, aware that Gerhard
had been eyeing her up in a less than surreptitious manner.
He'd been so charming, too, offering to help her in the
kitchen, something Stephen would never dream of.
'He was.' Stephen's voice was hard. 'When you weren't
watching, his eyes were all over you. I'd kill anyone if they
ever touched you,' he said. His fingers slid greedily inside
her blouse. 'You're mine, Olivia, all mine. I couldn't share
you with anyone.'
A tremor ran through her body at his words. Not sharing
her with anyone presumably included the viewers of a
morning television show.
As his mouth closed fiercely on her nipple, she closed
her eyes in resignation and chickened out of telling him.
Maybe in the morning, she thought hopefully.
Morning brought a raging hangover for Stephen and an
argument about clothes for the two-week trip he was
taking that afternoon.
'I didn't know you were going away today,' said a
startled Olivia.
'It came up yesterday,' he said curtly from the depths of
his wardrobe where he was searching for his black Ralph
Lauren polo shirt. 'I rang you twice but you weren't home.
Where the hell were you?' he said in annoyance.
'Out,' she said. 'You know, out and about. Buying food
for the dinner party.'
'Got it,' he said triumphantly, extracting the missing
Lauren shirt. 'Now where's that blue one . . .'
Tempers were very frayed by the time Stephen's case
was packed to his satisfaction, having mentioned twice that
he'd have liked to have taken the blue polo shirt with him.
'If you'd remembered to tell me last night, I could have
washed everything you needed,' Olivia said, feeling she
couldn't take all the blame for a last-minute trip she'd
known nothing about. And I'm going to miss you,' she
added placatingly, which wasn't entirely true.
'I know. My poor baby will have to be Mother Hen
while I'm away,' he said, pulling her to him. 'Last night was
very sexy,' he added.
Mother Hen, thought Olivia. Is that all I am to him? Mother bloody Hen! That was it. She was telling him about
her new job. He could do with a shock of the short, sharp
variety. If she wasn't Mother Hen she was the damned
Irish washerwoman. There had to be more to life than
that.
'There's something I've been meaning to say to you,
Stephen.' she said coldly.
'What?' He gave her a sharp look.
Under his suddenly belligerent gaze, Olivia felt herself
quake. 'I might go down to my parents' house for a few
days if you're going to be away,' she said quickly.
He looked puzzled. 'You normally can't get away from
them quickly enough,' he said, before shrugging in a
'Women, who understands them?' way. 'Do what you
want, dear.'
When he was gone, she tugged at a strand of her hair
with impotent self-disgust. Stupid, stupid bitch! Couldn't
you have had the courage to be honest, just for once!
She'd only returned from leaving Sasha at playgroup
when Paul Reddin - Max's producer friend whom she
hadn't met - phoned to say he was delighted with her
audition tape and could she please come in the next day to
sign a contract?
'Of course,' Olivia said, delighted. Then, because she
didn't want to appear too unprofessionally excited about
the whole thing, she inquired about fees and expenses.
Putting the phone down, she danced around the kitchen
with glee. Her fee was twice what she earned for a
morning's teaching. She should have gone into the TV
business years ago.
When the phone rang a second time, Olivia answered
with a lift in her voice that hadn't been there for months.
'Olivia, it's Max. I wanted to find out how you got on
with the audition?'
'Max!' she said, pleased he'd rung her. 'Wonderful! I got
the job, can you believe it?'
'Of course I can,' he responded warmly. 'I spotted your
potential as soon as I set eyes on you. What did you think
of Paul?'
'I never got to meet him,' Olivia confessed. 'But I met
Nancy Roberts and I got such a shock. She's nothing like I
imagined . . .'
Max's rich laugh interrupted her. 'I could tell you stories
about that lady that'd make your hair curl. I'll tell you
what, how about I take you out to lunch to celebrate. Are
you free this week? Today?'
Faced with the prospect of having nobody else to
celebrate her good news with, Olivia jumped at the
chance.
This was the beginning of a new life for her, she decided,
singing to the radio as she raced around the apartment
tidying up before she left. With Stephen and his glowering
bad mood gone, the place felt lighter, a happier home
altogether. Olivia felt capable of anything.
The dishwasher was humming with dirty dishes, the
crumbs had been hoovered up from the dining room and
the kitchen gleamed like a showroom specimen by the
time she hurried out of the front door, wearing a businesslike
striped suit in honour of the occasion. Well, Olivia
reasoned as she jettisoned her original choice - a rose pink
slub silk dress - in favour of the suit, she had to start
looking like a professional woman now.
Max drove up just as she was jamming coins in the pay
and display machine on Merrion Square.
'You look lovely. Very "woman in the media",' he said,
kissing her hello on the cheek.
'I normally get dressed in five minutes,' Olivia replied.
'This look took ages to get right.'
'Suits you.'
The number of people who greeted Max when they
entered Patrick Guilbaud's made Olivia aware of his status
as a mover and shaker.
He greeted everyone by name, chatting urbanely and
charmingly to all comers as he moved easily to their table
in the restaurant ante-room. He was graceful for such a big
man, she thought. She'd always thought that Stephen had
the most fluid gait of all the tall men she knew, but Max,
though of a more powerful build than her athletic husband,
was positively feline.
When he introduced her to a media tycoon whose
name she'd only ever seen in the world's richest people
list, and the tycoon slapped Max on the back and
demanded to know when they were going marlin fishing
again, Olivia realised that he really was a man of influence.
And that he'd gone out of his way to use that
influence to help her.
His friend Paul was a big name in the world of television
yet a word from Max had secured her, a complete novice, a
much sought after audition. The question was: why had he
done it?
'Why did you fix me up with an audition?' she asked
bluntly as they sat with the menus and glasses of mineral
water.
'Do you think I did it with an ulterior motive in mind?'
he responded.
Olivia grinned. 'That's like that joke that goes, "Do you
know that an Irishman always responds to a question with
another question?" And the Irish guy replies, "Who told
you that?"
Max chuckled. 'Fair point, Mrs MacKenzie.' he conceded.
'Or should that be Ms de Were?'
'You've spoken to Paul,' she said accusingly. 'I wanted to
fill you in on the details.'
'Sorry.' He looked unabashed. 'I only rang to ask him
how you got on after you'd told me you'd got the job. I
wouldn't have gone behind your back to ask otherwise, but
I do think it's a marvellous idea to use your maiden name.
It's much more interesting but. . .' he paused delicately
'. . . problematic'
She exhaled heavily. 'Yes. I haven't told my husband
about either the interview or the name yet. He'll go mad.
I'd hoped to tell him this morning but he went off on
another business trip and there never was a moment to
talk. Well, there was but I fudged it.' She looked up at
Max, startled. 'What is it about you that makes me divulge
my innermost secrets to you within three minutes of
meeting you? Are you a wizard or something?'
She was only half-joking. It was utterly bizarre the way
she felt she could speak to him on the sort of subjects
she'd normally only discuss with Evie. Here she was telling
him everything. She'd never had that sort of relationship
with a man before.
Platonic and yet truthful. Because it was totally platonic
between her and Max. There wasn't the faintest spark of
attraction there, they were comfortable with each other
but that was it.
'I mixed up eye of newt, wing of bat and a few hairs I
stole from your brush,' he said solemnly. 'That's the secret.'
If they hadn't been in such a classy restaurant, Olivia
would have flicked her menu at him. As it was, she restricted herself to a stern look that vanished as soon as
she caught the gleam in his eyes.
'Really,' she said reprovingly, 'what is it with you?'
He shrugged, in the nicest possible way, I'm not interested
in you, Olivia. I'm sure that's very rare in that you
are a very beautiful woman and most men probably drool
openly in your presence or else are rendered speechless.'
She would have gone red if any other man had said this
but with Max speaking, she merely grinned in mild embarrassment.
'I
appreciate your beauty,' he emphasised, 'but I don't
want to possess it or you. And you instinctively know that. That's the difference. You're not threatened by me.'
'It's like having a marvellous gay friend,' she said wickedly.
'Well,
you've found all my secrets out,' he said dead pan,
'so we're equal.'
When the waiter had taken their orders, she returned to
the subject.
'Right, so you don't want to get me into bed,' she
quipped, as if ticking off an imaginary list, 'and I don't
think you're doing it to get my husband into bed, so why
did you fix me up with the interview?'
Max steepled his fingers in front of his face and regarded
her through suddenly veiled eyes, 'I wanted to do something
for my new family,' he said.
'I'm not a member of your new family,' she pointed out.
'No,' he said slowly, 'but you're a close friend of . . .' he
was about to say something else but stopped himself just
in time '. . . the family.'
Olivia knew he was hedging but she left him alone.
Because she instinctively knew which member of his
new family he really wanted to help, which name he'd
nearly blurted out: Evie. Olivia had seen the way Max's
gaze had lingered on Evie at the wedding, the way he'd
stared at her and Simon with fierce concentration, only
breaking away when either of them turned his way. Poor
Max was crazy about Evie, she was sure of it. But would
any good come of it? Had he tried to make his interest
plain already and was that why Evie was so vehemently
anti him?
'That's all, that's my motive,' he said firmly, making it
clear the subject was closed. Olivia would have liked to
discuss it more but Max obviously didn't want to.
During a marvellous lunch, he regaled her with stories
of the television world and the dreaded Nancy, who was as
sexually voracious - if Max's terrible stories about innocent
young camera men seduced in hospitality were to
believed - as she was malicious.
Olivia hadn't enjoyed herself so much in ages. Max was
a wonderful raconteur and by the time he'd finished his
potted biographies of the people she had either met or
soon would, she had a stitch in her side from holding in
roars of laughter.
He told her that Nancy Roberts would be out for her
blood and had in fact already made an attempt to have
Olivia fired.
'Even before I was given the job?' she said, amazed.
'Paul won't take any of her crap,' Max remarked. 'Lots of
producers let the stars boss them around wholesale, and
sometimes,' he grinned ruefully, 'if the star is big enough,
you have to kowtow or they won't work. I have a leading
lady a bit like that. However, Nancy needs Paul Reddin just
as much as he needs her so she can't out-manoeuvre him.
He won't let her, which is why you're perfectly safe. Well,
your job is safe. What nasty little tricks Nancy has up her
sleeve to dissuade you from a TV career is another matter
entirely. But you'll manage.'
The way he said it, so confident of Olivia's ability, gave
her self-confidence an enormous boost. She would handle
Nancy Roberts. During the coffee, he finally came back to
the subject of the Erasers, like a dog returning to the place
where he'd buried a particularly tasty bone. 'Have you
known Simon for very long?' he asked, trying to be subtle
but failing miserably. His long fingers played with the fine
handle of his coffee cup.
'Only since Evie's been going out with him,' she replied.
'Nearly two years, I think.'
'When are they getting married?'
'September.'
His fingers tightened around the handle and Olivia
feared for the delicate china.
She hadn't imagined it: he was crazy about Evie. Olivia
decided gently to explain a little bit about her friend.
'Evie was on her own for a long time, although I'm sure
your mother knows that. She didn't have it easy, bringing
Rosie up without a father, and I rather think she'd given up
on men and love when Simon came along.'
'He seems like a nice guy,' Max remarked.
'He is. He's very . . .' Olivia searched for the right words.
'Sweet and kind. Not the sort of man I'd have thought Evie
would go for, in fact.'
Max sat forward, face alive with interest. 'What sort of
man would you think she'd like?'
'More macho, stronger, more streetwise perhaps.' Olivia
felt marginally guilty about Simon, of whom she was fond,
but she was being honest.
The sensitive, rather unworldly Simon had always struck
her as an odd choice for her friend, a woman who would
probably name Rhett Butler as her ideal man, if she wasn't
trying to hide her love of romantic fiction behind her
hard-boiled facade.
'Evie's husband was totally different from Simon.'
'What was he like?'
It was difficult remembering anything about Tony
Mitchell, although Olivia had been a bridesmaid at their
wedding in his icy little Kerry hometown. There'd been
no heating in the tiny stone church and, shivering in the
off-white plain wedding dress the two of them had
bought hastily a week before, Evie had looked blue with
cold. Her new mother-in-law had looked blue in the face
from pressing her lips together disapprovingly. The only
person who'd appeared to be enjoying themselves was
Andrew Fraser - stoic in the face of disaster as usual,
Olivia thought fondly.
In the context of that wedding, she could just about
picture Tony, impenetrable sloe-black eyes so like Rosie's
giving nothing away. He was what they called 'black Irish',
descended from the Spanish Armada that had sunk off
the Irish coast in the Elizabethan era, leaving Spanish
sailors to father a whole race of dark-eyed, dark-skinned
children who looked very different from the pale, blue
eyed Celts.
That's what had drawn Evie to him, Olivia remembered.
The fact that he was very different from all the
callow boys she'd gone out with before. Wearing his dark
blue police uniform, gypsyish face curved into a taunting
grin, he was positively dashing. Very Rhett Butler. What a
pity he hadn't turned out to have the same kind, strong
heart as Rhett.
Maybe that's why Evie had given up any hope of
finding a real hero and made do with a palely decent
man like Simon, who'd never light any fires within her and
who'd never light any for other women either.
Olivia jerked herself out of her daydream. Max was still
waiting for a description of Tony but she felt that she couldn't give away all her dearest friend's secrets, no
matter that it was to a man who seemed to embody all
Evie's hidden needs.
'He was very brave, a member of the Gardai,' she said,
giving Max the official line. 'He'd been decorated for his
police work but was tragically killed in an accident.'
'Certainly sounds tragic,' Max said. 'Poor Evie. I guess
she was really in love with him?' he added wistfully.
'Yes,' Olivia replied briskly, draining the last of her
coffee. 'Now, much as I'm enjoying this wonderful restaurant,
I have to go and pick up Sasha and her friend. We're
going swimming.'
After an afternoon spent in the shallow end and then
ages getting two wriggling children dry to shrieks of: I'm
cold, Mummy!' Olivia felt in need of more adult company.
As Stephen was away, she was free to do whatever
she wanted and the thought of an hour chatting to Evie
felt good.
Evie was cooking something that both Rosie and Simon
would eat when Olivia arrived, a tired Sasha in tow.
Installing her daughter in the sitting room with Barbie
and 101 Dalmatians, Olivia retreated to the kitchen and,
seeing Evie wearily browning bits of chicken, boiled the
kettle.
'I'm dying for a cup of tea,' Evie said, brushing hair from
her forehead with the back of her hand. And I'm ravenous.
I'm back on the Ryvitas again,' she added gloomily. 'I don't
know why but I just can't lose those five pounds I put on
over Christmas.'
'Poor thing,' Olivia said comfortingly. 'I just had the
most wonderful lunch with Max,' she added gaily.
Evie couldn't believe how jealous she felt. Olivia had
had lunch with Max. Jealousy pierced her like a metal
skewer stabbing the soft flesh of a roast chicken to see if it
was cooked. Only the metaphorical juices flowing down
the sides weren't clear like that of a perfectly cooked fowl
- they were green with envy.
'Lunch?' she asked, feigning indifference. 'That sounds
nice. Where did you go?'
'Guilbaud's,' answered Olivia, too thrilled with her
wonderful day to notice the hurt tone in Evie's voice.
'Guilbaud's?' asked Evie, not even bothering to feign
indifference now. The most exclusive, most glamorous and
most talked-about restaurant in Dublin. She longed to go
there, dressed to kill with a handsome man by her side,
with fleets of attentive French waiters ministering to her
every need. Simon, eminently prudent, wouldn't have
dreamed of taking her there. But Max would. It was just
his sort of place - elegant and luxurious. And he'd brought
Olivia there. Evie was amazed at how much it hurt.
What an In discriminating rake he was! If he couldn't
have one woman, he went after another like a drunken,
womanising sailor, not caring which port he was in so long
as there was something warm and female waiting for him
there.
Olivia was talking about the food. 'Seared scallops, soft
as butter,' she moaned. 'I am telling you, Evie, I have never
tasted anything like them in my life. That chef is a genius.
I wonder if I could cook scallops on the show . . .'
Olivia had her priorities all wrong, Evie thought crossly,
pushing the browned chicken around the pan aggressively. If she'd been eating in Guilbaud's with Max Stewart the
food would have been the last thing on her mind.
'He was very good to me,' Olivia continued. 'He told me
all about Nancy Roberts, said he wouldn't have dared to
tell me before the audition in case I bottled out. Max says
he's known her for years and that she's the biggest prima
donna in the business. Apparently, she was on the phone to the executive producer, his friend Paul, immediately after
my audition, demanding to know why they were auditioning
amateurs. Which means,' Olivia grinned, 'that you were
right all along, Evie. She's dead jealous, or so Max says'
Evie quelled her desire to point out sharply that Olivia's
conversation was littered with 'Max says this' and 'Max
says that'. Or that the Olivia of the previous day had been
so nervous about the idea of a vengeful Nancy Roberts that
she'd toyed with the idea of never going near the television
studio again. Now, Olivia was speaking as if Nancy was
nothing more than an irritating nuisance, certainly nothing
to stand in the way of her television career.
'The problem is that Nancy has been trying to get a
prime-time evening show for years, only when she tried it
the programme flopped disastrously. The Nielsen ratings
were horrendous,' Olivia said, sounding at ease with the
TV speak. 'So now she uses all her muscle to make
everyone's life a misery. What's wrong, darling?' she asked
in concern as Sasha came into the kitchen, a tremulous
expression on her face. 'Is the film over?'
Sasha shook her head mutely, stuck her thumb in her
mouth and put out her arms for her mother to hug her.
Olivia put the little girl on her lap and enveloped her in
a hug, kissing the soft baby fine hair gently. She smelled
clean and fresh, of peach shampoo and baby soap, and
Olivia felt overwhelmed by love for her. After a moment,
Sasha wriggled down and trotted into the sitting room.
'She's very clingy these days,' Olivia said worriedly. 'She
can sense the tension at home and she's back to sucking
her thumb, which she hasn't done for months. I don't
know what to do. No matter how badly Stephen behaves, I
can put up with it, but not if it affects Sasha.'
Seeing Olivia's anxious expression, Evie felt a stab of
remorse at even thinking her friend had been deliberately
flirting with Max. Poor Olivia had enough on her plate as
it was and wouldn't dream of having an affair with anyone.
Despite all his flaws, she was still in love with Stephen, still
committed to her marriage.
It was Max who'd done all the running and Evie grimly
awarded him another black mark.
They chatted for another few minutes before Simon
arrived straight from work, tie askew as usual. Not noticing
that Evie was cooking, he said he'd hooked dinner for two
in the hotel in the city centre where they were having their
wedding reception.
'I want to see what their rack of lamb is like,' he said
eagerly, pushing his glasses on to his narrow nose, as he did
at least fifty times a day.
Usually, Evie vowed to get him new glasses. Tonight, it
merely irritated the hell out of her. She banged the pan on
the cooker top to draw his attention to it.
Unperturbed, Simon patted her arm. 'Rosie can eat that,
can't she?'
'We'd better go,' Olivia said, sensing a row was imminent
and collecting up Sasha's coat and toys. 'This honey
bunny has to go to bed,' she added, tickling a squirming
Sasha.
Olivia was halfway down Evie's road before she remembered
that she'd meant to mention how often Max had
talked about her. Olivia was convinced that he'd asked her
out purely as an opportunity to find out more about Evie.
It was charming the way he'd deftly drag the conversation
around to her again and again, then forget to be subtle
when he asked about Simon and how long they'd been
going out. He was crazy about Evie: it was as plain as the
nose on his handsome face.
She'd tell Evie another time. It was only fair that her
friend knew how Max felt about her.
Simon gave Evie's hand a surreptitious squeeze under
the tablecloth. He wasn't the sort of man who'd hold her
hand on top of the table. Public physical displays weren't
his sort of thing. That was too touchy-feely. Not Simon at
all. His idea of being demonstrative in public was the
Heimlich Manoeuvre.
Aware that her hand felt about as responsive as a dead
halibut, Evie tried to smile back at her fiance. But she
couldn't. It was like trying to beam merrily at the dentist
when he said, 'Now that didn't hurt, did it?' while your
mouth ached as if it had been hit by a dump truck.
'Is something wrong, Evie?' Simon asked with a flash of
intuition.
Yes, she wanted to scream. Yes, it is. We shouldn't be
sitting here discussing the wedding meal. We shouldn't be
getting married in the first place. It's wrong.
But she said nothing. Instead, she summoned all her
energy and tried to look as if she was merely lost in the
misty joy of imagining herself as a bride stuffing her face
with lamb and creamed courgettes, trying not to spill any
on her fairy-tale gown.
The wedding . . . you know,' she said, just in case Simon
hadn't got the message. 'I hope there isn't another one
being held here on the same day,' she added cleverly,
knowing that nothing got his mind working faster than the
notion that he was somehow being cheated by the powers
that be. The idea of two bridal parties should do it.
'Lord, I hope not!' he said in alarm. 'I never asked in the
first place. We should do.'
Evie nodded encouragingly. 'Yes, you'd better.'
While Simon hotfooted it in search of a wedding
co-ordinator, who was probably at home glued to EastEnders
by that hour of the evening, Evie enjoyed the bliss of being
alone with her thoughts.
A young waitress brought their aperitifs and Evie gratefully
sipped her Campari and soda. She glanced at the
other couples out for a meal in the quiet restaurant, people
who seemed for the most part happy in each other's
company. Nobody else looked like they'd spent years
wishing for a husband and, now that they were on the
verge of marrying one, wished he'd vanish into thin air.
No, no, she didn't mean that. Evie didn't want Simon to
disappear. She loved him, cared deeply for him. But she
didn't know if she was in love with him anymore. How did
you know? she wondered.
Up until ten days ago, she hadn't known there was a
difference. Loving and being in love were pretty much the
same things. But it had all changed in the blink of an eye.
Simon sank down into the chair opposite her.
'Sweet Mother of God, I thought we were in trouble
there,' he said, wiping imaginary beads of" sweat from his
forehead.
'Really?' Evie said, desperately trying to sound interested.
'Only
kidding,' he said jokily. 'The deputy manager
explained that they only have one wedding party at a time.
Bit of luck, that.'
'Yes,' she replied faintly. 'Bit of luck.'
An hour and a half later, replete after a meal she had no
real memory of tasting, Evie sat woodenly beside Simon as
he drove her home. They reached the junction on the
Stillorgan dual carriageway where they'd turn left if they
were going to Simon's house and right for Evie's. Suddenly,
it was important that they went to bed together, that they
made love. It might exorcise the thoughts in her head, Evie
thought a little frantically.
She touched his arm. 'Let's go to your place for a while,'
she said abruptly. 'Just an hour.'
She couldn't see his eyes because he was concentrating
on the road, but Evie know he was pleased at the idea from
the way he cleared his throat and patted her knee as he
daringly swung the car into the left-hand lane.
In his house, she went into the immaculate kitchen
while Simon was pulling the sitting-room curtains and
switching on the lights.
'Could we have a drink, love?' she said, going straight to
the cabinet where Simon kept the booze. She wanted a
drink for some reason. Something to blank out the things
short circuiting all the sensible thoughts in her mind.
If he was bewildered by this sudden and unusual desire
for a nightcap, he didn't say anything.
Evie poured herself a generous vodka and topped it up
with orange juice. She'd seen Cara have one of those once.
Not really used to drinking spirits, she liked the fact that
the sweet juice masked the harsh bite of the vodka. She
gulped back half of it and turned to Simon, kissing him
while still holding her glass in one hand. He kissed her
back, then pressed his body against hers, proof that they
hadn't made love for at least ten days evident in his sudden
erection. He groaned and moved even closer to her, pelvic
bones grinding.
Evie pulled away. 'Let's go upstairs.'
'Yes,' he said thickly.
He ran ahead of her, probably to make sure the impossibly
tidy master bedroom was still as clutter-free as it had
been that morning, Evie thought. She finished her drink on
the way up the stairs, wincing as the last, least diluted bit
of the vodka hit the back of her throat with a kick.
Simon was eagerly unbuttoning his shirt when she
entered the room. Evie unsteadily put down her empty
glass and began to take off her cotton jumper, feeling about
as unsexy as was humanly possible. Amazingly, Simon
didn't seem to notice her lack of interest, even though
she'd been the one to suggest bed.
He ripped off his trousers, pulled his socks off and then
carefully put his clothes on the back of a chair, making sure
to get the trouser creases just so.
Max wouldn't have done that, she thought irrationally.
He would have been so mad to touch her that he'd have
taken her as soon as they'd got inside the front door. He
couldn't have waited. He'd certainly never have let her
take her own clothes off. He'd want to slowly strip every
item from her body, gazing at her with those hungry eyes
as he did so.
Mindful of the lights, Simon left his underpants on while
he pulled down the striped navy duvet and slid under it,
patting the side of the bed invitingly Evie overcame the
desire to back out of her side of the bargain. It'd been her
idea, after all.
Still clad in her bra and pants, she automatically
switched off the overhead bedroom light, plunging the
room into darkness only relieved by the street light shining
in through the thin pale blue curtains. Simon was a hump
in the bed.
She climbed slowly in beside him and his bare arms
wound themselves around her, his mouth reaching for her
shoulder, sliding down to her breasts immediately.
As his lips fastened voraciously on her nipple, Evie lay
back against the pillows. For the first time in their relationship,
she found herself merely enduring his caresses instead
of enjoying them. His body, the one she'd been getting
used to after years of celibacy, felt alien to her. His familiar
caresses felt awry, almost improper. As if she shouldn't be
doing this at all.
Furious even to he thinking such a thing, Evie pulled
Simon closer to her and found his mouth with hers. She
kissed him with fierce abandon, desperately trying to
obliterate traitorous thoughts. She wouldn't think about
Max Stewart, couldn't.
Encouraged by Evie's renewed passion, Simon couldn't
control himself any longer. Fumbling briefly under the
covers, he removed his underwear and hers, struggling as
usual with the clasp of her new Dunne's lace bra. He
pushed himself inside her, groaning heavily into the pillows
as he did so. Evie's hands roamed up and down his back on
auto pilot, stroking him as he moved because it was what
she'd always done.
Every few moments, he planted kisses on her shoulders
and neck before resuming his fevered thrusting. She could
hear his breathing become rapid and suddenly her eyes
filled with burning tears. Why couldn't she be happy? Why
was she lying here, enduring this, when she should have
been in raptures with her adoring lover?
'Evie, are you ready yet?' he asked, panting. 'I'm sorry
but I'm so ready for you. We'll stop for a minute if you
want.'
She knew what he meant: he'd lie beside her and fumble
earnestly between her legs until she was ready to come,
then he'd plunge back in and they'd come together. Well,
that was the theory,
Evie was ashamed to admit that she'd faked it more
often than not. Faked a shuddering orgasm because it
would take about three times as long as they usually
spent on foreplay to give her any satisfaction at all. Simon
was considerate enough to want her to have an orgasm
whenever he did, but sadly not experienced enough to
tell the difference between when she did and when she
pretended to.
'Will we stop until you're ready, darling?' he asked now. Faced with the prospect of even longer in bed wishing
she was with someone else, Evie chose the easy way out.
'No,' she said, injecting a bit of passionate panting into
her voice. She moaned softly. 'I'm nearly there. Oooh,' she
groaned.
'Darling,' he said thickly, increasing his tempo.
Evie moaned some more and raked his back with one
hand to show enthusiasm. She matched his moving body,
wriggling as passionately as she could.
Simon was beyond noticing.
With a hoarse cry, his body spasmed and Evie, wishing
momentarily that the Academy Awards people could see
her performance now, did the same. It wasn't quite Meryl
Streep in Out of Africa, but it wasn't bad. She moaned
convincingly, injected a little sigh and let her body relax in
time to feel Simon slump on top of her.
'Oh, Evie,' he sighed, burying his face in the pillow.
'Darling.' she muttered mechanically.
He shifted slightly so that his entire weight wasn't on
her, and Evie moved until she was linked to Simon only by
one leg and the arm he'd draped over her rib cage. She
could tell by his even breathing that he was on the verge of
going to sleep, but she lay there open-eyed and let the
tears that lay halfway down her cheeks dry.
What have you done to me, Max? she asked silently as if
he was in front of her in the darkened room, standing on
Simon's rather old-fashioned shag pile and staring down at
the figures in the queen-sized bed. What have you done to
me?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Zoe's red head was bent studiously over her desk but she
knew exactly what Cara was up to.
'I never thought I'd see the day when you were wearing
lip liner, Fraser,' she remarked without turning round.
Cara jumped guiltily, one hand still holding the tiny
compact mirror she'd bought the previous weekend, the
other wielding the small pencil as if it was a Class A drug
instead of Boots 17 lip liner in Morticia.
'I'm just looking for my lip balm . . .' She started,
jamming the lip liner and compact back into her rucksack
hastily.
'You're just looking for lurve with Lurve Doctor Ewan
Walshe,' Zoe chuckled, finally turning round. 'You don't
have to apologise to me, Cara, I'm only teasing you.'
She relaxed with a rueful grin. 'Arlene gave it to me
when we were all in Ryan's the other night, insisted I took
it. Said it would "define my mouth". I haven't worn
anything like this for years.'
'It suits you,' Zoe said, birdlike head angled sideways as
she admired the effect of the lipliner and mauve lipstick
on her friend's voluptuous mouth. 'Does Ewan like kissing
it off?'
They both laughed.
'Yes.'
'Where are you going for lunch today, 007?' Zoe asked,
resuming her work at the drawing hoard.
She was referring to Cara's insistence on meeting Ewan
in out-of-the-way places so that nobody at work would
know they were going out with each other.
Both Ewan and Zoe thought this obsession with secrecy
insane, but at least he was prepared to put up with it on
the basis that he was a very private individual and preferred
it when people didn't know too much about him.
Zoe, who'd blithely discuss her most personal details with
someone she'd met in the supermarket queue, simply
couldn't understand her friend's reluctance to date Ewan
openly.
Cara had tried to explain that she preferred to keep her
private life just that because she'd never really got over
being the butt of jokes once Owen Theal told a couple of
students how she'd thrown herself at him. But Zoe, who'd
pointed out that all that had happened a long time ago,
refused to entertain the notion.
Cara was actually sloping off to meet Ewan on the canal,
guaranteed to be free from all Yoshi Advertising staff
because it was Thursday, or pay day, and they were all
blueing their wages on big, beery lunches of steak marinated
in Guinness.
'We're meeting on the canal,' she admitted grudgingly,
'in five minutes.'
'If I was going out with Ewan, I'd have a site on the
Internet telling everyone about it!' Zoe said, abandoning
any pretence of working.
Cara snorted. 'So speaks the woman who discusses her
sex life with the woman at the launderette.'
'Lack of a sex life, you mean.' Zoe retorted. I'm gagging
for it and you're getting it every day and won't tell anyone.
I don't know why.'
'Well, you know, dating someone you work with,' Cara
said defensively. 'It's bound to be frowned upon. You know
how difficult Bernard is. He'd fire one of us and it'd be me,
I know it.'
'Fuck Bernard,' said Zoe, echoing Ewan's sentiments.
'Anyway, haven't you heard about employment law? This
isn't a dictatorship. There are laws about hiring and firing
people, you know.'
'It bloody well is a dictatorship,' Cara retorted. 'I was
here till half-ten last night purely because Bernard wants
to throw his weight around, and you were here until nine
the night before.'
'Yeah, well, I might not be here for much longer,' Zoe
said enigmatically.
'What do you mean?'
'I'm thinking of looking for another job,' she announced.
Actually, I've applied for several and I've got an interview
tomorrow.'
Cara stopped fiddling around in her rucksack and looked
at her friend in horror. 'You can't be serious?' she said,
astounded. 'When did you decide that? Where are you
going?'
She didn't voice her final question: What will I do
without you? They'd been together since college, worked
side by side in Yoshi Advertising for four years and
endured Bernard Redmond's temper tantrums together.
Cara couldn't imagine working in Yoshi without Zoe
grumbling good-naturedly by her side, slagging off Bernard
whenever she got the opportunity. There was nobody
around she could team up with to compose filthy limericks
about their colleagues, nobody to laugh with till they
were sick at lunch, nobody to discuss life, the universe and
everything with.
'I don't know for definite,' Zoe answered. 'The interview
tomorrow is with Solve and I don't think I'd like to work
there. But I've got to get out of this place. Bernard's so
mean he'll never increase our wages beyond the national
wage agreement and the only way we're going to get
promoted is if somebody dies, although I can think of a
few people around here I'd personally pay to have wiped
out purely for the good of humanity.' She stopped joking
and gave Cara an apologetic look. 'I'm never going to get
on unless I leave here. I was reading an article in Cosmopolitan about your career and in cases like this,
when you've got the boss from hell, it makes sense to cut
your losses and find another job.'
'Oh.' Cara couldn't think of much else to say. 'You're
right but . . .' she blinked back a tear at the thought of a
Zoe-free office '. . . I'll miss you so much.'
Zoe threw a pink highlighter pen at her teasingly.
'Jaysus, missus, I'm only leaving the company, not the
planet. You won't be banished from my organiser because
we're not in the trenches together anymore.'
'I know.' Cara still looked gloomy.
'Go on,' Zoe said with a quick glance at her watch,
'you'll miss lover boy if you stay here any longer talking to
me.
Ewan thought it was a great idea. 'Zoe's right.' He sat
on one of the canal benches and extracted his chicken
sandwich from its little plastic triangle. It was a warm
March day and the clusters of daffodils planted along the
edge of the water were brilliantly yellow in the lunchtime
sun. A family of ducks swam serenely in front of
them, muttering quietly among themselves in duck
language.
'But she's going to leave the company,' Cara said miserably,
sitting down beside him and ignoring her own cheese
salad sandwich.
'I'll probably bugger off myself in a year or so,' Ewan
remarked, mouth full of chicken.
'Jesus, what do you mean?' Cara was utterly astounded
now. 'It's like the bloody diaspora around here. Where are you going?'
'Relax,' he said.
Cara loathed it when people said that.
'I am relaxed,' she hissed in a most unrelaxed tone. 'I
simply want to know why all my friends are leaving the
company where we work. Is that too much to ask?'
'Well,' Ewan said equably, 'if I was working somewhere
else, you'd feel able to admit that you were going out with
me and you wouldn't be afraid that Bernard would fire
you.'
'It's not so much that he'd fire me,' she prevaricated, not
having explained the real reason to Ewan because she
couldn't bear to get into a discussion of the trauma she could never quite forget.'It's . . .Anyway, don't change the subject.
Why would you want to leave Yoshi?'
'It's great experience working under my boss, but if it
wasn't for Ken, I don't think I'd be here at all. Bernard is a
complete space cadet and I'd have better opportunities
somewhere else. I'd quite like to work in Deja Vu. They've
a great creative team. Zoe should try applying there if
tomorrow's interview doesn't work out.'
'What about me?' Cara asked mulishly. Ewan was
thinking of jobs for her best friend but not for her. It
wasn't fair.
He leaned over and gave her a chicken-scented kiss. 'You
should consider up-dating your CV too, my little apple
blossom, because without Zoe, you'll be doing her work as
well as your own until Bernard bothers to rehire.'
Cara poked him roughly in the ribs. 'Little apple blossom, my backside!'
He grabbed her with the non-sandwich-eating hand and
planted another wet kiss full on her mouth. 'That's not
what you were saying last night.' he joked. 'I could have
called you my little cuddly-wuddly bunnikins and you
wouldn't have minded.'
She kissed him back, feeling a flare of excitement in
her belly at the thought of the night before. A bottle of
Body Shop massage oil and the dog-eared copy of the Kama Sutra they'd found in a second-hand book shop in
Rathmines had combined to produce their most erotic
evening yet.
'Point taken, my little chicky-wicky teddy bear-ums,' she
laughed.
'Now eat your sandwich so we can go for a romantic
stroll in the sun and breathe in some lovely Dublin
pollution,' Ewan said as a truck belching exhaust fumes
beetled past, sending a black cloud over at least a mile of
the canal.

Cara listlessly splashed water over her breasts, watching
the bubbles in the bath redistribute themselves into
vanilla-scented mounds with every movement. The water
was at the just-hot-enough to be comfortable stage and the
bottle of Beck's she held in the other hand was just cool
enough to be refreshing.
'I think she's off her rocker.' Phoebe plucked out another
eyebrow hair and stood back to consider the effect. It wasn't
good. She'd taken too many out of one eyebrow so unless
she evened them out, she'd look permanently surprised on
one side of her face and normal on the other. 'I mean, how
does Zoe know she'll get a better job if she leaves?'
'Being in graphic design isn't anywhere near as secure as
working in the bank,' Cara said, splashing a few more
bubbles out of the way and thinking that she couldn't stay there forever. 'Agencies go under and people move companies
within the advertising industry all the time.'
'You haven't,' Phoebe pointed out. Although Ricky said he was thinking of chucking his job in soon.'
Cara closed her eyes in disgust. Only Ricky would be
dumb enough to give up a pensionable, decent job, which
he'd only got in the first place by a complete miracle, to do
something else. 'What does he have in mind?' she asked,
waiting for Phoebe to say her boyfriend was joining a boy
band or taking up a new career as a stripper. You could
never tell with Ricky.
'He's thinking of going back to college.'
Cara sat up in the bath. It was a mystery to her how he'd
ever got through college in the first place; she couldn't
imagine what course he'd take up to further his studies.
Scrounging 101, perhaps. 'But the bank would pay for him
to do a degree,' Cara said.
'Ricky doesn't want to feel tied down.' Phoebe plucked
some more. And he'd have to go back to the bank
afterwards if they paid for his course. He'd like to do
physiotherapy or something like that. He's very good with
his hands,' she added with a little smirk.
'Well, Phoebs,' Cara said, getting out of the bath and not
mentioning that the brain-dead Ricky hadn't a hope in hell
of getting into any physiotherapy degree course no matter
how good he was at bringing his girlfriend to the heights of ecstasy with his thumbs, 'if he gives up his job and
becomes a full-time student, he'll never have a bean and
you'll end up practically supporting him.'
'Don't say that,' she pleaded. 'I'm trying not to think
about it. And don't mention any of this to him, will you?
Promise?'
'I promise,' Cara said. 'I've got enough on my plate at
the moment what with Zoe going. I'll miss her so much.
She's a complete wagon for not telling me until now.'
Ricky was buried in the fridge when Cara mooched into
the sitting room. A plate surrounded by a sea of crumbs
was evidence that he'd made himself a sandwich and was
now looking for something else to eat. Cara hated the way
he treated the fridge as an extension of Phoebe's body available
for his sole use at any time. She wouldn't have
minded so much if he'd occasionally bought any food by
way of a contribution. But no, Ricky's idea of contributing
to the household was cleaning out the cupboards when he
was hungry.
'Hi, Cara.' he said breezily, emerging from the fridge
with the last rhubarb crumble yoghurt.
'That's mine,' she said indignantly.
Ricky gave her his puppy dog look, the one he used
when he was trying to borrow money. That was probably
how he'd got by in college, Cara thought grimly. One
beseeching look and no female lecturer could resist him.
'Sorry,' he said dolefully and pulled back the tin foil lid
anyway.
He was so incredibly good-looking, with a face like a
Calvin Klein model and the body of one too. Yet once you
knew Ricky for any length of time, Cara maintained, you
stopped noticing how wonderful he looked because he was
such a gigantic pain in the neck. Beauty was only skin
deep, whereas being dense cut to the bone.
Knowing she was being a softy for not screaming at him
about snaffling up her food, but unable to say anything
because he was Phoebe's boyfriend after all, Cara sat down
in the good armchair and turned on the TV. As she flicked
through the channels, she hit upon some rally cross on
RTE 1 and quickly flicked to the next channel. Even Ricky
wouldn't have the nerve to demand to see rally cross when
it was time for Friends.
'oh' he said in outraged tones, 'that's the programme I
wanted to watch!'
Cara spun around in her chair and fixed him with her
steely gaze. Rhubarb crumble was one thing, Friends was
another. 'Tough.'
They were watching Friends in grim, very unfriendly
silence when Phoebe walked in, scented and made-up in
another of the hot little numbers she'd bought 'specially
for Ricky. This one was a body-moulding floral see-through
top worn with tight metallic sheen trousers. It was wasted
on him tonight. Like a petulant child who wanted a
squabble refereed, he flicked back his silky hair and said:
'It's a repeat, Phoebe, and the rally cross is on!'
'Ricky . . .' said Phoebe, looking torn.
'It's our television, Ricky,' snapped Cara angrily. 'If you
want to watch rally cross, go home!'
'It's a repeat!' he cried back.
They both looked at Phoebe expectantly.
'It is a repeat,' she said reluctantly, looking meaningfully
at the television where Rachel was wearing her Princess
Leia outfit for Ross.
'Fine,' Cara said, getting to her feet, furious that Phoebe
had taken sides in this delicate matter. It was her flat too.
'You two watch whatever you feel like, but when you want
the rent paid, Phoebe, don't forget to ask Ricky for his cut,
seeing as the big gobshite lives here now!'
With that, she stormed out of the room, only stopping
long enough to grab her coat and purse, before marching
out of the flat.
The sunshine of earlier had given way to a consistent
drizzle and she ploughed into the rain, not really knowing
where she was going but determined to go somewhere.
She couldn't visit Zoe because there'd been a faint sense
of restraint between them since her friend had
announced her intention to move jobs. Ewan was at
soccer practice. To cap it all, she realised guiltily, she'd
managed to antagonise Phoebe, sweet, good-humoured
Phoebe who wouldn't hurt a fly. It wasn't her fault she
had a thoughtless, feckless boyfriend who thought work
was a four-letter word and believed that mi casa, su casa only worked in the su casa variation. It was bloody
Ricky's fault, Cara thought miserably, pulling the collar of
her jacket up to protect her neck against the rain. What a
wonderful day. Everyone she could have talked to was either not really talking to her or doing something else.
Premenstrual, depressed and feeling as if the entire world
was against her, Cara decided she had only one real
option - she'd go and get terribly, terribly drunk.

'Zoe's at the dentist,' Cara heard herself say in a sprightly
voice when Bernard's secretary rang their bolt hole office
at half-nine the next morning. 'Didn't she mention it? No?
Root canal, I think.'
She slammed down the phone and sank her head on to
her arms, anything to relieve her thumping headache.
It had been a mistake to go to McSorley's in Ranelagh
where she'd bumped into a crowd of Phoebe's bank pals
and ended up spending a riotous evening with them,
slurping back beers as if the girl from accounts in the
Dame Street branch was going to Mars on a space shuttle
for the rest of her life instead of to Sydney for a year.
Nobody could party like the bank people, Cara thought
ruefully. It must have been looking at all that money every
day and not being able to touch it that made them aware
of how fleeting life was and how they had to enjoy it now.
Or something like that. She had a vague memory of
discussing this theory with somebody in the men's toilet
when she and all the bank girls had barged in past a couple
of frightened blokes, claiming there was an endless queue
for the women's and they were desperate.
Cara hoped that was the worst thing they'd done. She
couldn't keep up with those women. They must have
constitutions of iron because when she'd finally decided
she had to go home at half-eleven, they were all warming
up for a night in Club M where the guest of honour was
promised a ducking in the Jacuzzi, clothes or no clothes.
It was small compensation to think that somewhere in
the city of Dublin, there had to be a few people who were
feeling more hungover than she.
Unfortunately, that tiny glimmer of pleasure was
dimmed by the fact that she hadn't been up in time to see
Phoebe that morning, so her plan to apologise for storming
out of the flat hadn't come to fruition. She hated not being
friends with someone, hated uncomfortable silences. It was
bad enough engaging in a Cold War with Evie, without
starting battles with anyone else. Before long, she'd have
no friends, she decided mournfully.
'Cara,' said a voice and she whirled around to see
Bernard Redmond staring at her in an unnerving way, as if
she were a rare species of bug and he was a collector with
a net who'd been searching for something new to pin in a
glass frame. 'I was hoping I'd find you here.'
Instantly on her guard, she looked at her boss warily.
Bernard never looked pleased to see anyone except his
bank manager and his sweet sleeping partner, Millicent. If
he did look pleased to see you, experience had shown the
staff that it was only because he was looking forward to
screeching abuse at you for something.
Bernard didn't drink, smoke or hang around bars so he
only had two hobbies: sneaking around the building,
surprising people who'd taken a crafty early fag break in
the ante-room off the canteen, and screaming blue murder
at people for no reason whatever. Cara didn't smoke, she
was at her desk working - in theory, anyway - so it had to
be a bollocking. She prepared herself for it.
'Hello, Bernard,' she responded carefully.
'We are alone?' he asked, as if someone very small was
lurking behind the filing cabinet in the corner.
'Yes.'
'Good, good. I need to talk to you. Privately.'
Cara gulped. This didn't look good. Ewan. He knew
about Ewan, that had to be it. Fraternising with colleagues
was bad for business and meant nobody got their job done
properly, she guessed.
'I believe Zoe is looking for another job,' he said
conversationally, sitting down on her chair and fixing Cara
with his best television evangelist's stare.
If Cara had been expecting anything, it wasn't this. She'd
been waiting for Bernard to launch into a speech about
employees dating each other and how this wasn't allowed
by the company. But Zoe! How the hell did he know she
was contemplating leaving? The place must be bugged. She
wouldn't put it past him. Transmitting toilet rolls in the
ladies' and concealed microphones in the light sockets,
that'd be Bernard's idea of keeping up with what the staff
were up to.
He was frowning less than usual, which meant he was
attempting to look quizzical, expecting an answer.
He could stuff it, Cara thought with a momentary surge
of rebellion.
'Really?' she said in astonishment. 'Gosh,' she added,
blinking and trying to look like the sort of person who said
'gosh' instead of the 'for fuck's sake!' she'd have normally
used. 'She's never mentioned it to me.'
The quizzical expression disappeared and his gimlet eyes
got even smaller, if that was possible. 'Yes, she's leaving,' he said. "I thought you'd have known.'
'I'm sure I would.' She paused. 'If Zoe were actually
leaving.'
Bernard swiftly recovered from his shock at Cara actually
being impertinent.
'Well, she is,' he said smoothly. 'And I have another
applicant for her job. I expect you to make the transfer of
accounts run smoothly. This is an important department
within the company.'
He never said that at wage review time, she reflected.
But Ewan was right. Zoe's going meant she'd have to do
twice the work until her replacement was up to speed.
'She's the daughter of a dear friend of mine,' Bernard
emphasised,' so be nice to her.'
Correction, Cara thought grimly, make that twice the
work forever. Any daughter of a pal of Bernard's was
bound to be some intellectually challenged bimbo who
didn't know one end of a pen from the other and would
require babysitting for at least six months before she was
capable of drawing a straight line or finding the coffee
machine unaided.
'Of course,' she said automatically. 'But,' she added
hastily, 'if Zoe isn't going . . .'
Bernard didn't let her finish the sentence. 'She is.'
Zoe took the news remarkably well for someone who'd
only been toying with the idea of leaving and was now as
good as fired. The last person who'd decided to leave was
given half an hour to clear their desk and Bernard had
made the deeply embarrassed security guard stand over
the recalcitrant employee as he packed a bin liner with his
possessions.
'I still have a month to work out my notice,' she said.
'He'll probably tell you not to bother coming back as
soon as you hand your resignation in,' Cara fretted.
'Remember Dino. You'd have thought he was going to steal
half the computers in the place the way Bernard had him
watched.'
Zoe shrugged. 'If that happens, it happens, Cara. Besides,
the interview went very well this morning. I'm sure they're
going to offer me the job and I'd like to work there. Better
than here, apart from working with you,' she added, seeing
Cara's downcast face. 'Come on, think of the leaving party
we'll have.'
'I'm too hungover even to think of having an alcoholic
drink ever again,' Cara said gloomily.
'Spoilsport,' Zoe said. 'A couple of Screwdrivers and
you'll be right as rain, I promise.'
'Why is it that whenever anyone says "I promise", it's
always detrimental to my health,' Cara muttered.

Retail therapy, thought Olivia, swinging the shopping bags
into the passenger seat, was definitely one of the most
enjoyable pastimes in the world. Better than sex. Far better
than sex, she corrected herself. Her current sex life was
hardly very therapeutic since it consisted of no sex when
Stephen was away (endurable because it meant he wasn't
bossing her around either) or the sort of soulless encounter
she found herself tolerating (because actually to discuss
what was wrong with their relationship would be to start
them on a rocky road from which there'd be no turning).
Under the circumstances, spending a huge chunk of a
month's wages she hadn't even been paid yet on clothes
for her TV appearances was fifty times more therapeutic
than any lovemaking.
She patted the selection of orange Karen Millen and
cream Kilkenny bags fondly. If scientists could bottle the euphoria you experienced after buying new, change-your
life clothes, then no woman would need Prozac, she decided.
In the teacher's loo in St Joseph's, she changed into
one of her new outfits: a pinstripe grey trouser suit
which was cut with the sort of sharp modern tailoring
she'd never worn before. Stephen liked her in classic
clothes, double-breasted blazers and elegant twin sets you
could wear with pearls and scarves with horses on them.
The sort of thing her mother had by the drawerful but
which she loathed.
She was sure he'd disapprove of this Karen Millen suit
with its fashionable edge and outrageous red lining. Yet it
gave her a surge of confidence to wear it.
Of course, it wasn't precisely the sort of outfit you'd
wear to teach 3A but Olivia needed to try it out, to get
comfortable in the suit before she wore it to the television
studios the next day. A trial run with the worst-behaved
class ever to tramp down the once-silent halls of St
Joseph's would be perfect.
It was a different Mrs MacKenzie who walked calmly
into the big Home Economics room ten minutes later.
Her face didn't have the hunted look teachers' faces
usually had when about to face the bane of their lives.
Instead, she looked quietly confident, a look her pupils
were not familiar with. They took very little notice when
she shut the door to the classroom. Mrs MacKenzie, along
with the young Geography teacher with the stammer,
wasn't the sort of person to strike fear into their souls.
Seriously in need of painting, the room stank of a bizarre
mixture of cookery smells, most of which were overpowered
by the stench of burnt onion from some previous
culinary experiment.
3A were already at their desks, some waiting quietly, the
remainder shouting at the top of their voices in the happy
expectation of an undemanding class where they could
chat, tell jokes and discuss which member of Westlife they
wanted to marry without any fear of Mrs Mackenzie
stopping them.
'Good morning, class,' she said. Apart from a few
mumbled hellos from the good kids, who were too afraid
of the troublemakers to be seen to be paying much
attention to the teacher, nobody responded. The noise level
continued unabated.
'I said, good morning, class. Now sit down and be quiet.'
Her voice was harder, louder and brooked no opposition.
She gave them a cool, clear stare, a look that had worked
well when she'd tried it in front of the camera.
The class sat up straighter and most of the noise
stopped, which was a first, Olivia realised smugly. Only the
few troublemakers kept talking, the secondary' school
version of giving someone a two-fingered salute.
Cheryl Dennis, Olivia's particular bete noire, chatted the
loudest. You can't touch me, she seemed to be saying,
running a hand through her short dark hair unconcernedly.
Olivia gazed at the pupil who'd tortured her for so long,
the girl who was single-handedly responsible for making
her reconsider her career as a teacher. Before Cheryl, she'd
been a decent teacher and had never lost control of a class.
But from that first day Cheryl had stared at her shrewdly,
sensing like a temperamental horse with an inexperienced
rider that here was a person who could lose command in
an instant, Olivia's confidence as a teacher had plummeted
like a stone.
Her fear of losing control in class had spread to every
lesson she took, until the point where she'd entered even
the first years' class with trepidation. She'd endured it for
the seven months since Cheryl had moved - meaning
expelled, they reckoned knowledgeably in the staffroom from
another school. Not anymore.
Olivia eyed up her opponent, trying to remember how she'd stared Nancy Roberts down. Cheryl was short,
tomboyish and made her school uniform look as
un-uniform as possible with the addition of blocky fashionable
shoes, a seriously turned up skirt and an overlarge
school jumper. Her eyes were rock hard and bristled with
attitude.
Action was required, Olivia decided. If she could quell a
television studio with her performance, she could certainly
shut up a little cow like Ms Dennis.
'I said, be quiet,' she said, staring straight at the troublemaker
with menace in her voice.
The class, sensing something was very different today,
fell silent. Even Cheryl.
Olivia walked to the back of the classroom, as slowly
and casually as if she was going for an afternoon stroll. She
did look different today, very cool, admitted a couple of
the girls to themselves grudgingly.
'Nice suit,' whispered one fashion-conscious soul longingly
to her best friend, recognising superior tailoring, the
sort of thing they admired in their mothers' magazines.
They both yearned to look like Mrs MacKenzie, all slim,
blonde and elegant. It was just that she was such a
pushover. They didn't want to be like her. They wanted to
be strong, powerful women. But it occurred to at least
some of them that Mrs MacKenzie wasn't acting her usual
pushover self today.
Mrs MacKenzie stood beside Cheryl, staring down at her
with an amused expression on her face.
The girl stared back at her insolently.
Olivia, knowing that this had to be done and silently
praying she could act tough for long enough to do it,
stared her down. With a superior look, she raked her eyes
over the schoolgirl. Not for nothing was she descended
from a long line of aristocrats. The supercilious gaze she'd
inherited from her mother and never before used meant
that the fine bones of her face fixed themselves into an
elegant sneer of sheer disdain. Centuries of de Veres had
used this look to put lesser mortals in their place. Her
mother used it all the time, especially when she thought
the butcher was short changing her with lamb chops. As
looks went, it was devastating.
Cheryl Dennis reddened under Olivia's gaze.
'Get up and go to the front of the class,' she drawled,
deliberately adopting the clipped tones of Sybil de Were
instead of her own soft voice.
The girl moved clumsily and Olivia allowed herself a
smile, knowing that it wasn't a very teacherly thing to do
but deciding that the end justified the means. The class
members who were sick of Cheryl's bullying giggled.
Olivia sank gracefully into the vacant seat.
'Now, Cheryl,' she said coolly, 'as you're so keen to keep
talking while I'm here, you teach the class. Today's lesson
starts on page 124.'
For once, the class troublemaker was at a loss. 'Me,
teach?' she said, laughing nervously, hoping someone
would laugh with her, back her up and make a fool out of
the teacher. That was the way things usually went for
Cheryl: a few smart comments, some sniggering behind her
hands and the ritual humiliation of whichever pathetic
teacher was attempting to tell them what to do. Because nobody told a Dennis what to do. Nobody.
She glared at her comrades, willing them to laugh with
her. But the class, with the new-style Mrs MacKenzie
sitting among them, watching them like a hawk from
behind her icy facade, stayed quiet as mice.
'Yes, you teach,' Mrs MacKenzie repeated ominously.
And waited.
Cheryl looked around her in shock, suddenly aware that
she'd lost her acolytes and was alone. It was very lonely at
the front of the class.
'We're waiting,' Mrs MacKenzie said caustically.
Unsure what to do next, the girl turned to page 124 of
the book and found herself facing a page full of long,
complicated words.
'. . . Transoleic fat . . .' Jesus, she couldn't read that.
'Is it too difficult for you?' the teacher asked.
Cheryl glared at her mutinously.
'Perhaps if you ever paid the slightest bit of attention in
class, you might be able to understand,' Olivia said succinctly.
'But you prefer to play act and ensure that the
pupils who do want to pay attention, can't hear.'
Cheryl tried to interrupt. 'But. . .'
'Don't interrupt me.' snarled Olivia.
Cheryl shrank back before the venom in Mrs MacKenzie's
voice. 'If you want to spend the rest of your adult life
shuffling to the dole office or flogging lighters on Henry
Street, then leave my class and don't come back. And I'll
explain to your parents exactly why I won't teach you. I'm
sure they're tired of kitting you out in a new uniform every
time you have to leave another school.'
Cheryl flushed at the jibe.
'But if you want to learn, if you want some chance of a
future, then you'd better behave when you're in my class.
Understand?'
'Yes,' mumbled Cheryl, defeated.
'Yes, what?' demanded Olivia.
'Yes, Mrs MacKenzie.'
Olivia rose. 'Sit down at your desk, Cheryl,' she ordered.
She took her own place at the top of the class and
looked at all the nervous, silent faces staring back at her. It
was a pity she'd had to be so mean to the girl in order to
regain the respect of the class, but it had had to be done.
Cheryl gave her an angry, vengeful stare.
'I meant every word I said, Cheryl,' Olivia said, ice in
every syllable. 'Don't forget it.'
Gazing at her round-eyed pupils, she felt that adrenaline
rush she'd felt when she'd completed her television audition.
Thanks, Max, she breathed silently.

Cheryl Dennis had been a walk in the park compared to
this, Olivia thought as she entered the brightly lit makeup
department the following morning to see Nancy Roberts
sitting like the mother alien from Aliens in a makeup
chair, a cover draped over her protectively. Nancy's eyes
were closed so Olivia slipped into the chair farthest away
from her and prayed that nobody said 'Hello, Olivia' and
gave her presence away.
Her striped suit may have been the battledress which
had defeated 3A the previous day, but today, unless it was
armour-plated to deal with Nancy's daggers, it wasn't going
to be as effective.
Three more people arrived to be made up and created a
safety buffer between her and Nancy, obliterating any
chance the star would notice her.
Olivia sank into the soft, dentist-style chair, closed her
eyes and prayed she'd be left alone until they were on set
at least. Paul Reddin would be there and, according to
Max, he'd prevent Nancy from being openly vicious.
The gods were smiling on her. Ten minutes later, from
the corner of her eye, she saw Nancy rip off her gown, peer
querulously at her image in the mirror and bark: 'It'll do!'
before teetering off on baby peach sandals that would be
out of place anywhere but at a Cannes cocktail party.
Olivia relaxed and tried to breathe deeply, letting the
make-up artist work her magic.
She slipped downstairs and made it to the studio without encountering Nancy. The production team were
hovering by the kitchen bar, waiting for her.
'Olivia,' said Linda Byrne. 'You're still wearing your
suit?' she asked in surprise.
'Yes,' she replied. Was that wrong?' They'd all appeared
to approve of her business-like outfit at the production
meeting an hour earlier.
'Well . . .' the producer said hesitantly '. . . it's not what
I had in mind for the show's cookery expert. We'd prefer
you to wear something more casual. That's too . . .'
'Harsh.' said a plummy voice. 'Office girl trying too
hard, perhaps.'
Nancy, beatific smile on her face, stood behind them.
Clad in a peach suit not unlike Olivia's in style, she looked
good but not as good. Which was probably why she was so
thrilled to see Olivia being told off for wearing hers.
'You want to wear something more mumsy, less threatening
for the cookery slot,' Nancy added, as if cookery was
something only watched by bewildered women in floral
pinnies who took fright at the sight of anyone in a suit.
'Not mumsy, exactly,' interjected Linda in a placatory
tone. 'More viewer friendly.'
Kevin, the production assistant, who now sported a fake
ponytail to go with his platinum crop, grabbed Olivia by
the arm before she could say anything.
'Of course Olivia's changing her outfit,' he said cheerily.
'We're just getting it ironed.' He herded her away from the
group, out of the studio and into the corridor.
'I haven't brought anything else to wear,' she protested,
'and that Nancy is an evil cow. I thought I was going to hit
her.'
'So did IV he giggled. 'Why else do you think I dragged
you out of there? You can't afford to antagonise the bitch
too much or you'll be history,' he advised.
'But the producer wouldn't stand for that, surely?'
Olivia asked, thinking of what Max had said about how
Paul Reddin was the one person Nancy couldn't wrap
around her plump, bejewelled little finger.
Kevin smirked. 'Listen honey, he might not, but Nancy
has plenty of friends in high places who'd do anything for
her.'
'You think so?'
'Let me put it in a more delicate way,' he said. 'If this
place went on fire tomorrow and the only thing left of the
head honchos on the top floor was a collection of their
dicks, Nancy would be able to identify precisely who'd
been killed by just those parts.'
'oh!'
'Oh is right,' he said. 'She's had more of the men in this
place than I have and the difference between us is that she
goes for the type who have power. Sadly I go for the
muscular but dumb type who can't further their own
careers, never mind mine.' He sighed theatrically. 'Now sit
in your dressing room and study your running order,
sweetie, until I can find a replacement top that isn't too
"harsh".'
Good as his word, Kevin returned after ten minutes with
a lilac silk knit top which, worn with her pinstripe
trousers, would look pretty and flattering. 'There's a girl in
the library owes me a favour,' he said. 'I ripped this off her
back so it's probably still warm.'
A woman who loved second-hand clothes, Olivia wasn't
about to complain about wearing something still warm
from the body of its previous wearer. She pulled it on,
dragged a brush through her blonde hair and was ready.
'What a trooper,' Kevin said admiringly.
Back on the set, the programme was about to start and
last-minute discussions were frantically going on in every corner of the studio. The floor manager strode around,
yelling into his radio mike with every third word an
expletive. The normally unflappable Linda Byrne sprinted
across the floor in the direction of the control room
looking anxious, and even the camera men and women
seemed jolted out of their usual laid-back state in anticipation
of the opening credits.
Nancy and her co-presenter, a kind-faced forty
something man named Theo Jones, sat on one of the giant
raspberry sofas, as far apart as they possibly could.
Nancy, resplendent in her peach trouser suit with the
usual six inches of heaving bosom visible down her Vneck,
was facing one direction, sipping coffee and reading the
stapled pages of the running order.
Theo, wearing a yellow handknitted jumper decorated
with lambs, and a pair of fawn cords, was facing the other
way reading his running order. You didn't need a degree in
either psychology or body language to tell that the famous
on-screen chemistry between the two presenters was as fake
as the cheekbones the make-up department had attempted
to give Nancy by the judicious application of blusher.
Theo looked plain uncomfortable sitting beside Nancy.
But then, Olivia thought, grinning to herself; wouldn't
anybody?
Nancy caught her grinning and glared back haughtily.
But with the memory of Kevin's tale about Nancy's ability
to identify men by their extremities uppermost in her
mind, Olivia met the glare with a giant smile.
'Thirty seconds,' yelled a voice.
Everyone held their breath and the first guest, a pretty
girl singer with her second single in the Top Ten,
quivered with nerves on the sidelines and fiddled with
her elaborately messed-up hair do with its collection of
flowery hair clips.
'Twenty seconds! Ten seconds!'
Then the theme tune was thumping into the studio and
Nancy and Theo, who'd automatically moved closer
together on the sofa, were smiling buoyantly at the cameras.
'Good morning.' they said cheerily as one.
'And have we got a packed show for you this morning,'
Nancy added breathlessly.
'Sure have, Nancy.' Theo patted her knees cosily. 'We've
got gorgeous Zelda here to sing her new hit single, "Dance
With You".' The pretty girl in the sidelines quivered some
more in her electric blue hotpants.
'An update on our story on animal cruelty,' Nancy
added.
'Author Anna Stavros is here to talk about her latest
blockbuster,' Theo said, turning to Nancy.
And we've got some fabulous cookery hints from our
new expert, Olivia de Were, who'll be showing you how to
do interesting things with shepherd's pic,' Nancy simpered
into the camera.
It was Olivia's turn to quiver: with rage. She wasn't
making shepherd's pie, it was 'Ten Clever Things To Do
With Pizza'. Nancy knew that! Linda Byrne, who had
appeared from nowhere, put a comforting hand on Olivia's
arm. 'We'll sort that error out,' she whispered. 'Must have
been a mistake on Nancy's running order.'
Mistake my ass! Olivia thought. Nancy had done it on
purpose.
She was speaking again: 'In a few minutes, we'll be
covering our saddest story, the tale of one abandoned
family of rabbits discovered in a plastic bag on Henry
Street.' Nancy gazed mistily at the camera as if the plight
of every injured animal in the world was on her mind
constantly. 'We want you to phone us with your own
stories - sad tales of poor abandoned animals or,' Nancy's
face switched miraculously into a tender expression it
never adopted off camera, 'funny stories about your own
beloved pets. The number is on your screen now.'
'She just loves animals, folks.' Theo put an arm around
Nancy and gave her a brief hug. 'Most soft-hearted woman
I know,' he added.
Olivia wondered if she'd imagined the ironic gleam
behind Theo's benevolent expression. She couldn't see
Nancy letting any furry friendly creature dirty her clothes
with a wet, questing nose or dirty paws.
'Now,' he added, 'let's welcome Zelda, glamour queen of
the pop scene, and certainly the most beautiful creature to
emerge from Limerick in a long, long time.'
- Nancy's face tightened. She was from Limerick, if Olivia
remembered correctly. And she hadn't imagined it: Theo
was sticking discreet little barbs in Nancy's peach-dad side
every chance he got.
She didn't waste any time getting her own back.
'Zelda,' she cooed, welcoming the nervous young singer
on set with a saccharine smile. 'Sit beside Theo. He's
perfectly safe,' she tittered. 'Poor dear wouldn't know what
to do with a pretty girl like you.'
Theo joined in her giggles. 'She's only jealous, Zelda,' he
said confidingly, 'because I haven't chatted her up for
years. Not since they stopped paying me to, anyway! Only
kidding, Nance, my pet,' he added, blowing a kiss to his
co-presenter, who sat there, a smile welded on to her stony
face.
If Theo had it all his own way during the Zelda
interview, flirting and excluding Nancy totally, she was
determined to make him pay when she held court during
the abandoned animal story.
'Isn't it terrible the way people treat animals?' she said
at the end of a heart-rending piece of footage narrated by
the cats' and dogs' home representative who sat nervously
between Nancy and Theo on the sofa. 'Not that you'd
understand this, Theo.' she said tearfully. 'He eats veal,' she
said dramatically to the camera.
'I don't,' hissed Theo, rattled. Not adoring children, old
people and animals was death to any television personality's
career, he knew. Eating veal was like being found to
enjoy slapping little old ladies or, even worse, like a
newspaper splashing your fondness for leather, peephole
undies all over the front page.
'You do,' Nancy said. Then, noticing the look of horror
in the producer's eyes, relented a bit. 'Or is it somebody
else I'm thinking of?'
'Must be somebody else,' Theo snapped. "I love calves - I
love all animals.'
'Except little fishies,' Nancy said with her famous winning
smile. 'You do eat fish, I've seen you.' She faced the
camera: 'Meat is murder, viewers, but fish is justifiable
homicide!'
Giggling as if she'd just made the most hilarious joke,
Nancy patted the animal expert on the knee. Aware of the
knife-edge tension on set, he jumped.
'Don't mind our teasing,' she cooed. 'Darling Theo and I
love teasing each other. I pretend to destroy his reputation
and he does the same to me. It's so much fun.'
'It doesn't look much like fun in my opinion,' Olivia
whispered to Kevin.
'The viewers think it's a howl,' Kevin said softly. 'They
don't realise that pair would have each other's eyes out if
they got the chance. It's hard to tell which one of them is
capable of throwing the bigger queenie fit.'
Five minutes later, as she stood in her gleaming television
kitchen, Olivia reflected that whatever Kevin's job
description was, it didn't cover half the things he did. Not only had he prevented her from murdering Nancy, he'd
found her something to wear and kept her so amused with
tales of Theo's and Nancy's long-running feud that she
hadn't had a moment to be nervous about her first live
appearance.
'You'll knock'em dead,' he said, utterly blase.
And she did. From the first moment Theo introduced
her to the viewers - and Olivia had sent up a silent prayer
of thanks to Linda Byrne for making sure it was Theo and
not Nancy who introduced her - she'd felt as if she was
freewheeling down a mountain on a superb bike, heart
lifting joyously with the thrill of it all.
For that first appearance, Theo hung around to help her
in case she got stage fright. But in the end, it was Olivia
who took charge, smiling at his efforts to grate cheese
without grating his thumbs into the bargain.
'I'm hopeless at this,' he admitted, sad face incongruous
above his happy lamb jumper.
'No, you're not,' insisted Olivia kindly, the way she
would to a shy second year who was nervous about
cooking. 'I'll do that, it's tricky. Why don't you arrange the
Spanish sausage on top of this pizza? You're the artistic
one around here.'
All in all, she and Theo made a far better team than
Theo and Nancy, Olivia decided. Her ten-minute cookery
slot was relaxed and fun. She and Theo chatted with the
easy amiability of people used to each other's company.
'It's delicious,' he mumbled at the end, as he bit into a
succulent slice of pizza decorated with goat's cheese and
red onions.
Nancy, who'd been off having her inch-thick makeup
touched up during the slot, appeared beside them suddenly,
like a malevolent cloud dressed in Escada, and
proceeded to look at the assembled pizzas as if they were
decorated with rats' entrails instead of chorizo, mushrooms
and tuna fish.
'Goodness, what a lot of pizza.' she remarked disdainfully,
poking at the most cheese-laden version with a fork.
'All appallingly fattening, no doubt,' she added maliciously.
'Not the sort of thing our viewers want to be stuffing their
faces with.'
Olivia saw her chance and went for it. 'I don't find them
fattening, Nancy,' she said pointedly, and cut a piece from
the cheesy one in question while patting her own tiny
waist. 'I can eat what I like.'
Under her sunbed tan, Nancy's face whitened with rage.
Olivia: one, Nancy: nil.
Kevin was still giggling when Olivia joined him behind
the cameras.
'She walked into that one,' he squealed delightedly.
'She'll never forgive me,' Olivia pointed out. 'Although
Theo seemed to like it. He gave me a hug and said "well
done" when we went to the advert break, and I don't think
he was simply referring to the cookery slot.'
'Olivia, you were brilliant.' Paul Reddin arrived from the
seclusion of the control room to give her a congratulatory
hug. 'You have this incredible screen presence. Everybody's
going to be watching you and talking about you soon, and
wondering where we found our marvellous TV newcomer.'

As it happened, quite a lot of people were watching her
already. In Wentworth Alarms, Evie and Lorraine had
abandoned their room for the sales office where, perched
on the same swivel chair, they watched the show on an
elderly television set normally only dragged out of its
hiding place for the Grand National when the entire
company all pulled a horse's name out of an envelope in
an office sweepstake.
Watching Olivia's lovely face become animated as she
laughed and joked with Theo Jones, while expertly dicing
and slicing at the same time, Evie felt a lump of pride in
her throat. Olivia looked so beautiful, so competent, so
utterly charming. She was wonderful, just wonderful.
'Don't cry,' Lorraine said, seeing Evie's little face tremble
and water collect in her huge hazel eyes from the
emotion of it all.
'I know it's silly,' she said tremulously, 'but I'm so proud
of her. Olivia's always lacked confidence, even though it
was unfounded, but to see her doing this . . . she deserves
to do so well!'
'Bleedin' hell, is she your friend?' asked one awestruck
sales exec, rooted to the spot with lust at the sight of
Olivia's exquisite face and elegant figure clad in a lilac top
which was marginally too small for her and, therefore,
sensationally clingy. 'She married?'

'Cedric! You'll never guess who's on the telly . . .'
By the end of Olivia's cookery slot, Sheilagh was
mentally figuring out what she'd wear to go into Navan
town and casually ask people had they seen her Stephen's
wife on the television that morning? Her new red blazer
and navy pleated skirt, she decided, and the cream court
shoes. So suitable. Her mind already working overtime,
she could imagine the conversations: 'I'm getting a few
last-minute things for our trip. Cedric and I are going to
Dublin for a few days for a party to celebrate Stephen's
wife going on the television. Oh, didn't you know? Well,
we don't like to blow our own trumpets. Yes, with Nancy
Roberts and Theo Jones. I believe Nancy is wonderful, just
loves Olivia. Merciful hour, would you look at the time! I
must rush. They won't start the party without us, we
can't be late!'
Cedric's roar interrupted her fond imagining. 'Did you
hear that?' he demanded, puffing up like an outraged
bullfrog. 'They said Olivia de Were - bloody de Were. Not
MacKenziel Is our name not good enough for her? I'm
going to have words with Stephen! There'll be war, I'm
telling you.'
'I think we should go to Dublin,' Sheilagh interrupted.
'Stephen's away,' snapped her husband.
'We'll phone him,' she said. Then, as it occurred to her
that her beloved son had kept this whole television thing a
secret from her, she added, 'I want to find out why he
never told us Olivia was going to be on the television.'

A hundred miles away, unaware of all this, Olivia was
treating herself to a manicure in the beautician's on the
basis that her hands were always going to be on show on
the programme and needed to look nice. And she'd
decided to treat herself. This wasn't Stephen's money she
was spending, she thought, luxuriating in that fact. It was
hers.
She was meeting Evie for a late lunch in half an hour,
and then she was going to take Sasha to the zoo as a special
treat. Stephen was away so there was no need to think
about what complicated dinner she'd have to cook for him
later. She and Sasha could have a McDonald's in Stillorgan
on the way home and spend a relaxing evening watching
telly. Bliss.
'You were brilliant.' yelled Evie when they met in The
Orchard car park. 'We all watched you and there's one
sex-mad sales executive who wants to know if you're
married, single or otherwise available!'
'Probably otherwise available when Stephen finds out,'
giggled Olivia. 'Was it really all right? I was so nervous in
the beginning and then it just gelied.'
As Evie only had half an hour to devour her sandwich,
they hurried inside. After ages spent discussing the ins and
outs of television, Olivia suddenly said she must remember
to phone Max and tell him how she'd got on.
'He's a lovely guy,' she added.
'Is he?' Evie sounded brittle.
'He is. And he really likes you, Evie. At that lunch, he
wanted to talk about you all the time,' Olivia protested.
'I'd rather not talk about him, if you don't mind,' her
friend said shortly.
'OK.' Olivia decided that something obviously had gone
on between Max and Evie, something very odd. She'd been
sure there was a spark between them but perhaps she'd
been wrong. In any case, Max must have made his feelings
plain to Evie and she'd rejected him. It must all have
happened badly, although Olivia could hardly imagine
Max messing up something like that. He was so polished,
so sure of himself. But you never knew. The most polished
people sometimes made a complete disaster of things.

The little red message light on the answerphone was
flickering frantically when Olivia let herself and Sasha into
the apartment that evening. Tired after a thrilling afternoon
looking at lions, chimps and a baby goat, finishing up
with a Happy Meal and a fudge sundae at McDonald's,
Sasha padded into her bedroom to show her beloved
teddies the new fluffy elephant she'd picked in the zoo
shop. Equally happy and equally tired, Olivia shrugged off
her jacket and decided to boil the kettle for a reviving cup
of tea before listening to her messages.
So she at least had something hot and sweet to cling
to when Stephen's irate voice came on the line: 'What's
happened, Olivia? I've just got some message that my
father is looking for me urgently and there's a problem
to do with you. What the hell is going on?' He'd rung at
half-tour. The second message, which he'd left at half-six,
just moments before Olivia had opened the front door,
was much more to the point: 'My father tells me you're
a bloody television star! I can't believe this,' he hissed.
'Did he get it wrong? I never thought the stupid eejit
would lose his mind totally but he must have. Ring me
back and tell me. I mean, I'm here trying to sort things
out and . . .'
Being cut off didn't stop Stephen. He'd rung back two
minutes later to continue in the same vein.
Clutching her cup convulsively, Olivia shut him up by
deleting the messages. He knew. Oh, Christ, he knew. And
in the worst possible way, at that. He would kill her,
absolutely kill her. Nobody hated humiliation more than
Stephen and having his father find out about his wife's
television appearance before he did would certainly rank as
humiliating. Why hadn't she thought that anybody connected
to Stephen would see the show? Why had she been
so bloody stupid?
Because you were so delighted with yourself that's why,
sang an evil little voice in her head. 'Pride goes before a
fall,' her mother had always said puritanically, although she
only ever said it during those years when Olivia's beauty
had blossomed and never applied the proverb to herself.
Olivia stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring loudly at
any minute with Stephen breathing fire and brimstone
down the line from Germany. He'd phone again, she knew
he would.
The piercing ring of the doorbell made her jump and
spill half her cup of tea on to the floor. She gasped in
shock. It couldn't be Stephen. He couldn't have got home
from Germany that quickly. Opening the door gingerly, as
if she expected something black, cloven-hooved and
brandishing a giant pitchfork to be standing there malevolently,
Olivia peered out.
There, hidden behind a giant bouquet of early-summer
flowers, stood her next-door neighbour, Gloria. A redheaded
air stewardess who lived alone, Gloria had
incurred Stephen's wrath years before for having the odd
wild party where seventies disco music blared through
the thin walls and, therefore, never called round when he
was there.
'Is this a good time, Olivia?' she said in her breathy,
little-girl voice. Meaning: Is your husband there? Olivia
knew.
'Wonderful time,' she said, just as grateful as Gloria that
Stephen was thousands of miles away. 'Do come in.'
'These were delivered earlier and I took them in for
you,' Gloria said, handing over the giant, sweet-smelling
bouquet. 'They are beautiful. I do hope you haven't been a
naughty girl.' She giggled. 'That's my job.'
Never seen without the expertly applied cosmetics that
transformed her from an ordinary-looking girl into a femme
fatale in an Aer Lingus uniform, Gloria was a complete
chatterbox who'd talk all day if you let her.
Normally, Olivia was too busy drumming up three
course meals to keep Stephen happy to have time to talk.
But today, jittery with shock and desperate to gabble to somebody about what had happened, she dragged Gloria
into the sitting room, made them two giant drinks and
spilled her heart out.
'I never meant not to tell Stephen,' she said, shaking so
much that Gloria was afraid Olivia's Bailey's and ice was
going to hit the floor. 'I mean, we all have secrets and it's
just the way it turned out. But if I'd ever dreamed he'd
find out this way . . . And he'll go mad! I know nobody
believes it, he's a bit of a house devil, street angel, but . . .'
Gloria, very kind and used to dealing with nervous fliers
on the Dublin to New York route, sat beside Olivia and
put an arm around her. 'Don't panic, lovie,' she said, 'Have
your drink.'
Like a child being told to drink up her milk, Olivia
obediently sipped her Bailey's while Gloria kept up a flow
of meaningless conversation intended to relax her.
Then are gas, aren't they?' she went on. 'We all think
they're the answer to our prayers and when we have
them, they drive us mad. I know your Stephen is a bit,'
she paused delicately, 'sensitive and tricky. But he'll come
round. The thing is, you've got to stand up to him, lovie.
Tell him you're his dear wife but you've got your own
career. It'd be different if you were fighting over something
else but with this television show, he should watch
out. There'll be dozens of men dying to date the glam
telly cook and your Stephen ought to cop on to himself or
he'll be cooking dinner for one soon. Now, let's see who
those flowers are from. I'll put them in water and you
read your card.'
She handed Olivia the envelope that came with the
flowers and went into the kitchen in search of a vase.
Feeling so much better after a bit of sisterly support and a
glass of Bailey's, Olivia ripped open the envelope and
smiled fondly.
'Congrats on a brilliant TV debut. Paul and the team reckon
they've found a new star. So do I. Best wishes, Max Stewart,' read the card. Dear Max, he was so kind and supportive.
In the kitchen, she found Sasha and Gloria happily
arranging the flowers. Kissing the little girl on top of her
blonde head, Olivia asked Gloria if she could stay a bit
longer.
'We've had a McDonald's,' she confessed, 'but we could
open a bottle of wine and have some cheese and biscuits.'
They were halfway down a bottle of Frascati when the
doorbell rang blisteringly. Much more relaxed and no
longer expecting Stephen to arrive in a demonic rage,
Olivia walked to the door in her stockinged feet and
opened it. Her jaw dropped when she saw Sheilagh and
Cedric on the doorstep, bristling with emotion and carrying
suitcases.
'Well, you're the quiet one,' said Sheilagh, shoving past
her into the hall, leaving Cedric to hump two cases and a
carrier bag of bullet-hard scones in behind her.
"I can't say we weren't surprised,' Sheilagh went on,
dumping her fat cream leather handbag on the floor and
squeezing her plump arms out of her red blazer. 'But it's an
interesting job. You'll have to get Theo or Nancy to do a
special appearance in Miriam's Boutique in Navan. I was in
there today and said I was sure you'd be able to, seeing as
how you know them. All these famous types love personal
appearances. But this'd be free, of course.'
Striding into the sitting room, she stopped at the sight
of Gloria tucking into spiced Adare cheese and water
biscuits. Not sure that Gloria wasn't a famous celebrity
she just didn't recognise, Sheilagh's face creased up into
a smile.
'Hullo,' she said, immediately adopting her posh phone
voice. 'We're Stephen's porents, deloighted to meet you.
I'm Sheilagh and this is Cedric'
Gloria, who recognised Stephen's parents after being
shoved rudely to the back of the lift by Sheilagh and
numerous carrier bags in a January sale frenzy on several
occasions, drained her glass and got up.
'Must go,' she hissed at a still-silent Olivia.
'So pleased to meet you,' she trilled at Sheilagh, in her first-class-to-JFK-lounge voice. 'Have to fly. Love to dear
sweet Nancy. Tell her I'll be in touch,' she added wickedly.
'Who was that?' asked Cedric with interest as Gloria let
herself out with a final goodbye pout at her hostess.
Sheilagh gave him the evil eye and he began humping
their cases down to the spare bedroom.
'Television people are so rackety,' Olivia said, suddenly
regaining her composure. 'Dear Gloria works on the
News.' she lied, 'but she's so unassuming you'd never think
she was in television.'
Sheilagh wasn't interested in the News. Only lifestyles of
the rich and famous gave her the thrill that Cedric no
longer wanted to. 'What's Nancy Roberts like?' she
demanded, sitting down and helping herself to a lump of
cheese the size of a hamster. 'Is she lovely?'
About as lovely as you pair are, Olivia reflected.
Cedric and Sheilagh had gone through half a quiche,
four massive baked potatoes and an entire Vienetta by the
time Stephen phoned again.
'Won't be a minute.' Olivia said to her replete guests,
closing the door to the sitting room and taking the phone
into her bedroom.
Stephen was beside himself. 'What the hell is going on?'
he hissed, obviously not even slightly mollified by the posh
dinner Olivia knew he'd have had in the posh hotel he
always stayed in.
'By the way, your parents are here,' she said mildly.
'I don't fucking care! What's this about you on the
television?'
'Don't swear. I did a television audition for a morning
programme. They wanted a cookery expert and I went for
the job. I got it and today was my first day.'
'What!'
Olivia covered the receiver. Gloria, in the apartment
next door, must have heard his roars.
'I didn't tell you because I wanted to see if I was any good at it. I thought you'd slag me off for even attempting
to appear on television. But it was very good, everyone
thought so.'
'Jesus Christ, Olivia, are you fucking mad? You go off
and do this thing without even telling me about it and
then I hear from my father. How do you think that makes
me feel?' Stephen roared.
The telephone receiver is a powerful instrument, Olivia
realised, the thought striking her out of the blue. She dared
to say things to the cream plastic receiver she'd have been
scared to say to Stephen's face.
'Stephen, do you ever for one moment contemplate the
fact that what you think and what you feel aren't the most
important things in the universe?' she said, finally snapping.
If she could cope with the malicious Cheryl Dennis
and the vicious Nancy Roberts, then her own husband
wasn't going to trash her. 'I didn't tell you because I knew
you'd try and destroy my confidence over this the way you
do with everything else. It's that simple,' she said, every
syllable enunciated perfectly. 'And now that I'm doing it,
getting paid for it and enjoying it, I don't give a fuck what
you think.'
She could almost hear him recoil at her unexpected use
of the expletive. Olivia never swore.
'If you want to discuss this, then come home. But don't
dream of swearing or screaming at me or you'll find all
the locks changed. I won't even let you in the spare
room,' she warned. 'You can use your precious gold card
to buy you a hotel room. You've bullied me for too long,
Stephen. The worm is turning.' She slammed the phone
down vehemently, feeling the thrill of triumph coursing
through her veins.
In the sitting room, her in-laws were channel surfing
aimlessly. There was nothing on the TV they liked
watching. All the films on these days were 'rubbish' and
the late-night chat shows were all populated by 'young
pups'. Olivia knew what would come next: bored, they'd
start interrogating her as to why Stephen hadn't known
about her television debut. So far, they'd been too busy
stuffing their faces to ask. But the inquisition was nigh,
she just knew it.
They'd love to be up all night talking about the proud
MacKenzie name, about how much Stephen loved her, and
probably ask if they could get tickets to see their favourite
shows. Olivia, who had to get up the next morning for a
class, wasn't in the mood. Seeing as how she wasn't taking
any abuse from Stephen, she wasn't planning on taking any
from his horrible parents either.
It was half-nine, she realised, wondering where the
evening had gone. She could watch the TV in her bedroom
if she managed to escape from Cedric and Sheilagh. As
long as they had access to the kitchen, they'd survive.
'Was that Stephen?' asked Cedric, fixing her with his
beady eye as she came into the room.
'Yes, it was. Actually, Cedric and Sheilagh,' she
announced, 'I'm quite exhausted and I've a hectic day
tomorrow so I'm going to bed early. You'll have to excuse
me
Sheilagh, who had changed into one of her trademark
velour tracksuits - mustard yellow - once she'd realised
there'd be no more glamorous television guests turning up,
looked furious at Olivia's announcement.
'After we came all the way up from Navan to see you?'
she said hotly. 'We need to talk.'
Olivia's patience, which had taken a severe battering
from Sheilagh and Cedric over the twelve years of their
marriage, was wearing dangerously thin.
'Sheilagh,' she said, less tolerantly, 'I didn't know you were coming or I would have tried to rearrange my day
tomorrow.'
Her mother-in-law went a dark red at the not so subtle
dig.
'But because you arrived unexpectedly,' Olivia went on,
'I haven't had a chance to rearrange anything and as I've
got to be up at seven, I'm going to bed now.'
'There's no need to get up on your high horse about it,'
Sheilagh snapped. 'I'm sure we'd have phoned if we'd had
the chance.'
'You had the time to phone Stephen in Germany twice,' Olivia pointed out crisply, 'so I think you could have
managed a call here.'
'We were worried, that's all,' Cedric interrupted, eager
to get his four ha'pence worth in.
'Worried about what?'
'About how you'd got on the television and why we
were never told,' he said. 'And about why you were using
your maiden name,' he added sententiously.
'As if ours isn't good enough,' shrieked Sheilagh. 'We
know when we're not wanted . . .'
'I don't hold with this modern carry on of women not
taking their husband's name,' Cedric continued. 'It's a
disgrace, should be outlawed. In my day, women were
proud to take a man's name. Of course it's different
now . . .'
'. . . what with all that divorce,' put in Sheilagh, her
hard little eyes gleaming with rage.
'Well,' Olivia said, finally losing her own temper, 'thanks
to your meddling, perhaps Stephen and I will be getting a
divorce, so then I'll be needing my own name after all.'
Cedric spluttered and Sheilagh went another shade
darker, a colour that usually made casualty department
doctors ring up the cardiac specialist.
There's never been divorce in our family,' she hissed
with all the venom of a rattlesnake.
Olivia stared back at her parents-in-law. She'd have
loved to have said that if they hadn't brought Stephen up
to be a domineering, anal-retentive control freak, then
divorce wouldn't be in prospect. But he was and it was, she
realised calmly. Anyway, she didn't want to reveal her inner
misery to Cedric and Sheilagh.
'Let's hope there won't be one this time either,' she said,
'but your involvement hasn't helped. Goodnight.'
She left the room and went quietly to her bedroom.
They'd stayed here many times before: they knew where
everything was, including the front door. And it Stephen
had a problem with Olivia finally standing up for herself
when it came to his parents, then tough.
It was too much to expect that they'd be gone when
she came home the following day just after lunch, after
having picked Sasha up from the creche. The hum of a
hairdryer and the blaring television still on in the sitting
room told her that Sheilagh was doing her hair and
Cedric was glued to afternoon TV. They may have known
when they weren't wanted but that didn't mean they'd
actually leave.
Tired of the air of gloom hanging over the apartment,
Olivia went into the kitchen and turned the radio on full
blast. Offspring's latest hit pumped out violently, all heavy
guitars and an ambient beat that sounded as if you'd want
to be taking at least a few kilos of drugs to really get into.
She grinned. Sheilagh would hate it.
'We had our lunch,' Cedric said, appearing at the door
looking mildly shamefaced.
'You have?' Olivia was surprised. Usually their idea of
lunch meant half an hour tidying up for her.
'We're going in a few minutes, I've booked a taxi.' He came further into the kitchen. 'I'm sorry, Olivia,' he said,
startling her as much as if he'd just announced he was a
transvestite. 'We shouldn't have interfered. I just reacted
badly, although Sheilagh doesn't agree with me, if you get
my drift.'
Olivia got it all right. Sheilagh had no intention of ever
apologising for anything: she didn't think she'd done
anything wrong, and she'd crucify her husband if she knew
he was apologising.
'I didn't think about you or the trouble I might cause by
telling Stephen you weren't using our name - I'm sorry.
I've been thinking about it all night.' Cedric looked downcast.
'He can be hard to live with, I know. But he does love
you very much.'
'Love shouldn't be about control, though, should it?' she
asked bitterly. What a conversation to be having with your
father-in-law!
Cedric shook his head. "I know. That's my fault too. I
wanted him to be strong, you see, not a wimp. I'm sorry
he's so furious with you.'
Olivia's head shot up. 'He rang while I was out, didn't
he?' she asked.
Her father-in-law nodded. 'I tried to talk to him but it
was no good. His mother got in there and started giving
out yards . . .'
'I did what?' Sheilagh, hair styled into hard grey sausage
curls clamped to her head, appeared behind her husband,
looking as if she'd been in an overpowering rage for twelve
hours with no sign of a let up. Her face was red and she
was sweating under her sensible white blouse and red
blazer.
'I was telling Olivia that Stephen's getting a flight home
this afternoon,' Cedric said, back to his usual strident
tones.
Jesus! Olivia wanted to collapse. Stephen was coming
home from Germany early. He'd kill her.
Much she cares,' snapped Sheilagh.
Olivia looked at the woman who'd caused her so much
grief during her marriage, the woman who'd always
resented Olivia's family background and who'd found
every excuse to complain about her to Stephen. Sheilagh
had whinged about the food, her bedroom and Olivia's
manners whenever she came to stay. She'd remarked that
working women couldn't expect to rear children properly;
anything to cause division between her beloved son and that woman he'd married. Olivia felt the years of doing her
best to please Sheilagh slip away. You couldn't please
Sheilagh, so why bother?
'You know what?' Olivia said, giving her truthful streak
full rein. 'You're a nasty, vindictive woman and I'm sick of
you. I'm not letting Sasha near you ever again in case you
taint her with your horrible opinions on people and your
venomous tongue.'
Her mother-in-law glared at her. 'You . . . you can't do
that! She's my grand-daughter. What would people think?'
Olivia's face was a mask of disgust. 'That's all you really
care about, Sheilagh: what people think. You couldn't give
a damn about real people or whether you've hurt them or
not. All that matters to you is the surface, your public face,
and making sure you're in your rightful place at the altar
on Sunday, piously praying. When behind it all you're
secretly figuring out whose character to assassinate next.'
'Steady on,' Cedric said.
'I don't do that, said Sheilagh shrilly.
'Oh, come on.' Olivia was beyond being polite. 'When
did you ever come here and say anything nice to me?
When did you come and help, instead of arriving unexpectedly
and demanding I drive you around like a bloody taxi? Did you think I didn't know you complained behind
my back to Stephen if I wasn't ultra-polite to you or if you
felt you weren't being looked after properly because you
wanted an extra pillow on your bed?'
'How dare you speak to me like that? You're nothing
but a jumped up little tramp, no matter how you
pretend to be better than us, coming from that big
house.' Sheilagh's eyes were blazing now as she said all
the things she'd been hinting at for years. 'Well, we all
know your mother's nothing but a drunken lush and
that's probably what you'll turn out like too. I've warned
Stephen.' She was almost spitting with rage. 'I've told
him you'll turn out just like her: drunk and sluttish. You
with that long blonde hair, too. It's ridiculous at your
age! Makes you look common. And all your going on
about your posh family . . .'
She went on and on but Olivia had stopped paying
attention. What had Stephen thrown at her during that big
fight before Andrew Fraser's wedding: that she'd turn out
just like her mother? Obviously he and Sheilagh had been
singing from the same hymn sheet. What a pair. No
wonder she and Stephen had been struggling along
together, with his mother as the anti-marriage guidance
counsellor from hell in the background, dispensing her
poison.
The doorbell rang.
'Our taxi,' said Cedric, desperately relieved. He scurried
out of the kitchen to answer the door.
Olivia stood as close as she could bear to Sheilagh and
whispered: 'I will get Nancy Roberts and Theo Jones to
come to Navan, and we'll have a marvellous time - except you won't be invited. Nancy will make that plain. She'll
tell everyone that she won't have anything to do with you
because you're such a cast-iron bitch to me and Sasha.
Wait till that gets spread around Navan. You'll be a
laughing stock.'
As if by magic, Sheilagh's high colour drained away. 'You
wouldn't?' she breathed.
'Wait and see,' was Olivia's reply.
'Sorry,' said Cedric helplessly as his wife flounced out of
the front door, not bothering to take either of the suitcases
with her.
Olivia shrugged. 'I've always known what she thinks of
me, now I've just told her what I think of her.'
'But this is so bad for the family . . .'
Olivia's voice was hard: 'Your wife and my husband
worked hard to create this problem, so let them pick up
the pieces, Cedric'

'Where's Daddy going?' Sasha asked, sitting on the bed
and playing zoo with her new elephant and a couple of old
bunnies as Olivia briskly and efficiently packed Stephen's
clothes into the two largest suitcases they owned.
'He might be going on a long trip, darling,' she said
absently. 'Or he may be staying in the spare room.'
'Why?'
'He keeps waking Mummy up in the middle of the night
with his snoring,' she said, abandoning her task to cuddle
her daughter.
'Will he be cross with us?' Sasha asked, her face anxious.
'No,' Olivia promised. 'He won't.'
She hugged Sasha closer, grimly thinking that this was
something she should have done a long time ago.
'Goodie. Can Rosie live with us then, and Auntie Evie?'
Sasha loved Rosie with childlike devotion.
Not really, love, they'll be living with Uncle Simon.' Or,
at least, Olivia thought they'd be living with Simon. The
last time she and Evie had discussed the wedding, it had gone from being the biggest thrill of Evie's life to something
she apparently didn't want to discuss. Which didn't
bode well for the future.
When Stephen's key turned in the lock that evening,
Olivia had two suitcases and four boxes of stuff ready for
him in the hall; the boxes containing his books, office files,
CDs, the CD player, and the contents of his drawers. At
first, she'd only packed clothes for him as if he was going
on a particularly long business trip but after a while had
decided that they needed a complete break. The only way
to get him out was to shock him and packing up all his
possessions would certainly do that.
'What the fuck is going on?' he roared on seeing the
boxes.
It was business as usual. Olivia steeled herself for the
inevitable battle. Do not back down, she told herself again
and again as she walked from the bedroom into the hall.
'What's going on? Why have you packed up my stuff?'
Tall, dark and handsome in a grey suit and charcoal tie,
Stephen would have turned any woman's eye if it hadn't
been for the fury on his face. Almost speechless with
temper, he gestured at the boxes and cases and asked:
'What is going on, Olivia?'
Determined not to betray how scared she was, she stared
back. 'Until we sort out our differences, it makes sense that
you move out.'
'Differences! What bloody differences?'
'The differences that mean you scream down the phone
at me, effing and blinding simply because I did something
with my life you didn't know about.'
'Oh, yes, your "job",' he sneered, draping his suit jacket
over the hall chair.
'That, Stephen, is my point. I have a new job and it's
none of your business. I want you to move out. I want a
trial separation, it's not open to discussion. Don't try to
bully me'
'You can't throw me out of my own house,' he said,
outraged. 'I bought it, it's mine.'
'Is it?' she said coolly. "I seem to recall my parents giving
as twenty percent of the purchase price as a wedding
present. Doesn't that mean I have a bigger stake in it than
you?'
He shook his head impatiently. 'Let's get back to the
main issue here. You're just fooling around like this
because you want this job and I don't approve.' He
advanced and took her hand in his, a pleading expression
on his face now. 'We can talk about it, if it means that
much to you. I don't approve . . .'
'Stephen.' She wrenched her hand away from his. 'I
don't need your approval. I'm an adult, and I'm sick to the
teeth of you bossing me around as if I'm some sort of
half-wit. I'm not. I'm not Mother Hen or Dopey Olivia.
I'm a person and you are no longer controlling my life.
You're domineering, aggressive, and it's got to stop.'
Stephen sat down on a chair as if his legs had lost their
strength and he needed to sit before he fell. He seemed
genuinely amazed, astonished that she could see his behaviour
as anything other than justified.
'But I love you! I only want what's right for you,' he
protested. 'I only tell you what to do so I can protect you,
take care of you.'
'I married you, Stephen, I didn't want to marry a force of
nature. That's what you're like: a tornado or a tidal wave.
You engulf everything that gets in your way. "Protecting"
me means babying me, treating me like a kid. You never
ask me what I want to do, you totally ignore my needs.'
Needs?' he said, stung. 'I know where you've been
getting all of this. From those bloody women's magazines with their "relationship" sections. How to whip your man
into shape- tell him he's a force of nature and doesn't listen to
your needs. God, that crap makes me sick! It's all psychobabble
anyway.'
Olivia felt herself weakening. It was so difficult, standing
up to Stephen after all these years. Just then, she heard a
noise and whirled around in time to see Sasha's terrified
face peering around her door. One plump hand clutched
her new elephant to her face; her thumb was lodged firmly
in her mouth. She looked like one of those children you
saw in newspaper photos about domestic abuse: traumatised
and scared.
Olivia felt the final vestiges of fear chip off like the last
bits of bright varnish from a nail.
'The final reason I want you to go is that you scare our
daughter. When I disagree with anything you say, or when I
don't immediately do what you've ordered, you go berserk.
You change, fly into a rage. That rage terrifies her and me. I
grew up in a house where I was always afraid: afraid my
parents would get pissed and go crazy after me; afraid
there'd be no money for food or bills; afraid of what terrible
things my mother would say to me when she was in a rage.'
She could remember it all so vividly. The terror of sitting in
the kitchen when Sybil was in full flight - you never knew
who'd be blamed for what or why. Waiting for bombs to fall
in wartime must have been similar. You could hear it
coming: you just didn't know where it would land.
'I don't want Sasha to go through all that,' Olivia said.
'I don't drink.' protested Stephen, looking strangely
vulnerable for the first time.
'That only makes it worse,' she said simply. 'You have no
excuse except your own total lack of control and the fact
that anyone has dared to go against your wishes. We're all
screwed up in some way, Stephen, we all have our demons
and insecurities. But you can't see that about yourself You
think you're perfect. You're not and you need help.'
'Help?'
'Yes, help. To make you understand that you've got to
take responsibility for your own temper. What happens
when you hit Sasha or me?'
'I'd never do that.' The muscles in his jaw were corded
with tension. 'You know that, Olivia.'
'How do I know that? I never know when you're going
to change from Dr Jekyll into Mr Hyde so how do I know
you'll never get violent? You have so much rage in you,
Stephen. I don't want to put up with it anymore. You
should leave. Perhaps when you face up to your problems,
we might have a marriage.'
She wasn't being entirely truthful. She'd never been
afraid he'd hit her. He'd never even touched her. But
telling him she was afraid of it was the most shocking thing
she could think of and it had certainly worked. Stephen
looked shocked out of his mind.
'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I never meant to ... Please, Olivia,
don't let it end this way. I love you, and I love Sasha.'
'I love you too, but I don't know if I can live with you
anymore. It would be better if you moved out, then we can
decide if we do want to be together.'
He looked like a broken man. 'What about Sasha?'
She's your daughter, I'm not stopping you seeing her.
But I don't want her living with us when our relationship
is so appalling. I don't want her to suffer that.'
Maybe we could get counselling,' he said wildly.
'We can. But you've got to move out first, Stephen. If
you won't, I will and I'll take Sasha with me. This is the
only chance we've got to see if we can sort out our
marriage. If you don't agree, I'll just file for divorce. End of
story.'
In the end, he took only the suitcase he'd brought back
from Germany. 'I'll come by tomorrow and pick up the
rest,' he said hollowly.
'Fine.'
When he left, Olivia sat down on the chair in the ball
and wept silently. Giant, heaving sobs wracked her body.
She knew she had to do it but telling him to leave was the
hardest thing she'd ever done. She loved Stephen, God
help her, she still loved him.
CHAPTER TWELVE

Evie looked at the assembled bags and cases on the floor of
her bedroom and realised that none of them was fit for a
glamorous villa holiday in the south of Spain. None of
them was fit for a wet weekend in a caravan park, for that
matter, unless it was a seventies revival weekend where the
older and grungier things looked, the better.
The dilapidated old blue suitcase she and Tony had
bought on their honeymoon had been stuck in a cobwebby
corner of the attic for years and looked it. She used to store
Rosie's old toys in the case and she'd had to jam a lot of
headless dollies and threadbare teddies into an old laundry
basket when she emptied it. But she couldn't throw them
out, they were too precious for that. Every tattered but
much-loved cuddly thing had a history behind it: the
rabbit named Charlie that Rosie wouldn't get into her cot
without; the little clown with the sad face she'd gone to
sleep sucking until she was four. Evie dragged her attention
back to the matter at hand - her lack of luggage.
The enormous barrel bag she and Rosie had taken to
Ballymoreen for years wasn't in a much better condition
than her honeymooning case. Only the black and red
edged weekender Olivia had given her one birthday in an
attempt to get Evie to go away for a girls' weekend was fit
to be seen. And that was so small it wouldn't have
accommodated all the shoes she'd been considering taking.
The main problem, Evie knew, was all the advice she'd
been given about the holiday destination.
Puerto Banus was stylish, the travel agent had said.
Glamorous, one of Olivia's friends had pointed out, adding
that everyone looked good with a tan.
'You'll feel like a bog woman beside those beautiful
Spanish women,' said Lorraine's aunt mournfully.
Out of the three options, Evie was putting her money on
Lorraine's aunt's forecast. She had nothing stylish and had
never had anything close to the peanut butter tan Olivia's
friend seemed to sport permanently. Which meant she'd
almost definitely feel like Bog Woman on holiday.
'You can take the woman out of the bog but you can't
take the bog out of the woman,' she muttered to herself
forlornly.
Consequently, with all this contrasting advice, she had
panicked over what to take and decided simply to take
everything even vaguely summery. Plenty of non-summery
things were also going on the basis that Ireland's climate
meant Evie didn't have a vast summer wardrobe and just
wore her winter clothes without the jumpers and opaque
tights.
It was a glorious Wednesday evening, three - well, two
and a half - days before she and Rosie were leaving for
Spain: three days in which to transform herself from an
ordinary office worker into a glamorous jet-setter who'd
look at home sipping cocktails poolside and asking for cafe con leche, por favor.
Evie stood in her bedroom, arranging and rearranging
the piles of clothes on the speckled duvet, valiantly trying
to make each pile smaller by rejecting things that were too
similar.
She'd never known she had so many pale pink Tshirts.
There were nine of them in varying degrees of washedoutness.
Somebody must have told her once that pale pink
suited her.
Holding one up to her face and looking critically in the
mirror, she decided they'd been wrong. Pale pink made
her look like a Beatrix Potter piglet. All she needed was a
frilled mob cap and she'd have looked at home beside
Mrs Tiggywinkle, which wasn't exactly the look she was
going for.
'Shit!' cursed Evie with unaccustomed venom. She
rarely swore but today just couldn't help herself.
The mellow July sun flooded in through the half-open
windows and the scent of next door's freshly mown lawn
mingled with the perfume of her aromatherapy burner
which was overloaded with lavender in the hope of
relaxing Evie. Some hope. Only serious tranquillisers
could do that, she decided grimly. The holiday was a
mistake, that was the problem. It wasn't simply her lack
of clothes or lack of suitcases: it was her complete lack of
self-control. She should never have agreed to go to Spain
with her father, Vida and Max. What had she been
thinking of? It was bad enough avoiding Max at home how
could she avoid him when they were staying in the
same house?
OK, so he was only going to be there for two days as he
was arriving at the villa on Thursday and she was leaving
the following Saturday. But she'd still have to see him, to
talk to him, to spend time with him.
How could she do that without making it terribly
obvious that she was crazy about him? That she longed to
talk to him; to sit with one hand on his thigh as they
watched the sunset? Even though he was a terrible rake
who went through women faster than a rock 'n' roll band
did groupies.
Evie examined the denim mini skirt she'd found at the
back of her wardrobe and had tried it on in desperation. It
looked awful: so did she.
Her dark hair was lank and badly in need of a haircut,
her skin was pale from too many hours spent in the office
and she had the beginnings of a PMT spot the size of Texas
on her forehead. It would be hard enough having to see
Max without having to look terrible into the bargain.
But she couldn't suppress the excitement she felt at the
thought of seeing him again. Banishing him from her life
had been her only ammunition against him. She'd avoided
Vida's birthday party with a fake case of 'flu because Max
was going to be there, yet her sudden food poisoning had
cleared up miraculously in time for dinner in their new
house when she realised he wouldn't be present.
It was better not to see him, she'd told herself endlessly.
That theory rang hollow on those hot, sweaty nights when
she spent more time staring at the alarm clock than asleep.
In her imagination, there was no escaping those flashing
deep blue eyes. Night was when she thought about Max,
giving him full rein in the hope that he'd remain one of her
midnight fantasy heroes and would stop tormenting her by
day as well. At night, she could remember every word he'd
ever said to her and in a half-slumber, imagine his arms
were around her, holding her, hugging her, making slow,
passionate love to her.
In the daytime, she was ruthless with herself. Max was a
rogue and she couldn't give up all the things she'd fought
so long for simply because he'd waltzed into her life,
nonchalantly assuming she'd dump her fiance for a fling
with him. And a fling was all it would be, she thought
fiercely. After all she'd been through, Evie couldn't take
that risk. Wouldn't take it.
'Does this top go with this skirt?' Rosie appeared at the bedroom door, long bare legs clad in a pink pelmet of a
skirt with her top half just about covered by a flimsy
tie-dyed T-shirt that revealed her entire midriff. 'Of course,
I've got to fake tan my legs,' she added, looking down at
her slim brown limbs critically.
Thanks to a post-exam gift of three hundred pounds
from her grandfather, Rosie had purchased an entire new
wardrobe for her week in Spain. A cheap wardrobe of
wondrously short and skimpy clothes that were youthfully
sexy. Her mother shuddered at the thought of what the
teenage male population of Puerto Banus would do when
they saw Rosie wearing them. Or not wearing them, as the
case may be. They were all so skimpy. One pair of shorts in
particular looked like nothing more than a tiny pair of
knickers and the thong bikini Rosie was so thrilled with
would undoubtedly give anyone with a heart complaint
severe palpitations.
'It's lovely,' Evie said truthfully, forcing herself to be
honest about the skirt and not to say it was a pity they ran
out of material when they were making it. 'But it's a bit
short. . .' she couldn't help herself from saying.
'Oh, Mum, come off it.' Rosie threw herself on the bed,
bouncing all of her mother's carefully folded piles of
clothes as she did so. Lounging on one elbow with her legs
swinging in time to the George Michael CD playing loudly
in her bedroom, Rosie began to extract things from the
piles and rearranged them in different combinations.
'Jeez, Mum, we're only going for a week. You're bringing
tons. And this,' she said, holding up a white baggy T-shirt as
if it was contaminated by Lassa fever, 'is terrible. You can't
wear it. I don't know why you haven't turned it into a
duster.'
Evie snatched it back. 'It's only three years old,' she
retorted.
'A hundred and three,' Rosie replied. 'It doesn't matter
how old it is, it's bloody awful on you.'
'Don't say bloody,' Evie corrected automatically as she
pulled off her cardigan and dragged the white T-shirt over
her head. Rosie was right: it was terrible. Baggy and
shapeless. With her denim mini skirt on as well, she looked
a complete slapper. All she needed was a pair of white
stilettos, a tattoo and an ankle bracelet.
'See? It's terrible.' Rosie sat up purposefully and went
through the rest of the clothes like a Medici poisoner
searching for hemlock. 'You need some new things, Mum.'
For a laugh, Evie slid into a purple paisley midi-dress
that hadn't even been that fashionable the first time
round, smeared red lipstick on her lips and posed for her
daughter. 'Surely not,' she simpered. 'This is all I need. A
beach cover up by day and an evening gown by night!'
'Ugh!' Rosie was suitably disgusted. 'I've never seen that
before.'
'It was in the attic. I thought I might find something that
had come back into fashion,' Evie said. 'Hotpants did and
flares. You never know what's going to be fashionable again.'
Rosie gave the dress a withering teenage stare. 'That
thing is hideous and if it came back into fashion, I'd
become a nun.'
'Sister Rosie, make us a cup of tea,' Evie joked, cheered
by the presence of her daughter. When she was with Rosie,
she didn't fret madly about Simon, Max and the future of
her world.
'Not until I've gone through this junk.' Rosie pronounced.
'You can't take a quarter of this stuff. It's ancient!
I've only spent some of Grandpops' money. How about if I
give it to you to buy something nice? You deserve it.'
Eyes filled with tears, Evie kissed the top of Rosie's head
softly. 'You are a wonderful daughter, you know that?'
'But you still want me to trudge downstairs and make
you tea, huh?' she laughed, unfurling her long legs and
dancing to the door as George Michael hit the high spots
with 'Too Funky'.
'Choccie biscuits?' she asked.
'No,' Evie yelled after her, although she longed for one.
She didn't want to look fat by the pool. Well, any fatter.
Her bum and thighs were enormous: they got bigger
every time she looked at them. She'd have to borrow a
couple of sarongs from Olivia, who kept saying Evie was
mad and that she wasn't in the slightest bit fat. Typical
Olivia. Being kind as usual. Evie ripped off the purple
dress and cricked her neck trying to gaze at her bottom
in the mirror.
'Horrible,' she muttered to herself. So much for the
anti-cellulite diet. She went on to the landing and leaned
over the banisters.
'Rosie, I've changed my mind. Bring up some choccie
biscuits, will you?'

Saturday morning dawned ominously dark. Clouds swollen
with rain loomed like giant blackberries over Dublin
airport as Evie drove up and parked the car in the
long-term car park.
'We're miles away. Nearer Belfast airport than Dublin.
Couldn't you have parked nearer?' grumbled Cara, lugging
her sister's giant suitcase out of the boot and looking at the
unfinished surface of the car park over which it would be
hell to drag the cases.
'No,' snapped Evie, feeling nervy and irritated for some
reason. 'The short-term car park is much more expensive,
Stephen says. I'm not made of money, you know.'
Rosie, having listened to the two of them snapping like
baby alligators during the drive across the city, was fed up.
'Stop bitching,' she said with rare sharpness. 'We're
going on holiday, the first proper holiday of my adult life, I
might add,' she added dramatically, 'and I want to enjoy it,
not listen to you squabbling. I'm supposed to be the
teenager, not you two.'
Head held high, she swept off, dragging her fit-to-burst
bag as if it weighed nothing, long legs undulating in her
faded denims, worn red espadrilles flopping off her heels
with each step.
Chastened, Cara and Evie stared at each other for a
moment before breaking into peals of laughter.
Evie dropped her smaller bag back into the boot and put
her arms around Cara. 'I'm sorry. She's right. We're like a
couple of old biddies fighting over the remote control.'
Cara giggled. 'Can't you just see us in fifty years, sharing
a house with seventeen cats and nothing but the memory
of our lost loves between us?'
'Do we have to wait fifty years?' asked Evie blank-faced,
suddenly thinking how nice it would be to live with Cara
and Rosie: safely, happily, with no horrible decisions about
weddings and men or anything to torture her day and
night.
'Why?' Cara was startled out of her Patsy and Edwina
from Ab Fab reverie. 'What about Simon and the wedding?
You don't fancy living with me now? You always say I'd
drive you round the bend.'
'Lord, no,' her sister said briskly, recovering. 'Only kidding.
We'd murder each other. You'd be better off with
Ewan, wouldn't you?'
It was Cara's turn to look guarded. 'Yeah,' she said
morosely.
Now wasn't the time to tell her sister it was all off
between her and Ewan. Maybe later, over some Sangria by
the pool. They could talk then. She brightened up at the
thought of letting the sun warm her limbs and burn the
memory of Ewan out of her skull. Although it would have
to be very powerful to do that.
Two weeks of going out on the booze with Zoe hadn't
accomplished it, so why did she think seven days in Spain
would achieve what so many pints of beer had failed to
do? Miserable again, but hiding it, she hauled her luggage
into the airport.
The departures hall was like Henry Street on the first
day of the January sales. There were people everywhere,
manically rushing around with suitcases, trollies and pushchairs.
All brightly dressed in anticipation of arriving in
some scorching far-flung destination: all looking ludicrously
out of place in Dublin where the rain had finally
decided to pelt down like some Biblical curse.
'It's certainly wet enough to be tropical,' Cara remarked,
shaking rain off her black curls like a soaked dog just out of
the bath. 'Pity it's so cold we've all got goose bumps. I
can't wait to feel real Spanish heat.'
'I'm going to start queuing for check-in,' Evie said. 'It
takes hours for charter flights. Will you wait here and keep
an eye out for Rosie? Although, on second thoughts, she's
probably gone off to Knickerbox to buy another bikini.
Dad gave her money for clothes and she's bought four
already.'
Cara prodded Evie's enormous borrowed suitcase. 'And
you've just brought a couple of things yourself then,' she
teased.
Her sister grinned. 'I couldn't make my mind up so my
entire wardrobe is in there. If the airline loses it, I'll be naked for the rest of my life!'
'Simon will be a happy man on honeymoon, if that's the
case,' Cara remarked drily, privately thinking that her
future brother-in-law was such a wet, his eyes would
probably stay glued to the cricket on the TV even if Evie
stood in front of him starkers for hours on end and writhed
around like a stripper.
'Now,' began Evie, starting to worry about her daughter's
whereabouts in this massive, holiday-crazed crowd, 'if
you can't find her, meet me in ten minutes in the queue
and we'll have her paged . . .'
'Don't worry,' Cara said gently, not wanting to start a
row and knowing that worrying was second nature to her
sister. 'I'll find her. There's one advantage to being tall you
tan see over crowds.'
They parted, Evie heading into the throng of travellers
with her laden-down trolley and Cara striding determinedly
in the direction of the shops, staring around
looking for her niece.
Evie's trolley had a mind of its own, lurching in every
direction but the one she was pushing it in.
'Sorry, sorry,' she gasped, barely avoiding colliding with a
gang of golfers blindly steering club-laden trollies in the
direction of check-in.
'If that's the way you drive, I'm not getting in the hire
car with you,' said a deep voice, rich with amusement.
Evie, turning her head to see where the voice was
coming from, cannoned into a barrier.
'I'll drive,' said Max, appearing beside her.
She furiously wrenched the trolley around like Ralf
Schumacher on the chicane at Monza. 'It's my trolley,' she
shrieked, utterly unnerved by the sight of Max, cool and
holiday-ish in jeans and a comfortable denim shirt, looking
for all the world as if he'd just stepped out of a Ralph
Lauren advert.
'What are you doing here?' she demanded. Then,
realising he didn't have any luggage with him, she
assumed he'd come to see his mother off. Which was nice but odd, particularly as he'd be seeing them all in Spain
in five days.
'I drove out here and had a sudden longing to hop on a
plane,' he deadpanned.
Evie blinked in disbelief
'I'm flying to Malaga with you,' he continued.
'You said you were only coming for the weekend,' she
accused, suddenly wishing she'd bothered with makeup.
She'd been planning to plaster herself in Olivia's Lancome
eyeshadow palette on the plane before they landed.
Max shrugged. 'I changed my mind.'
'You promised you were only going for a few days, not
the whole week,' she added.
'Did I?'
He could look irritatingly remote when he wanted to,
Evie thought. He was doing it now: looking distant and
blank. But he was, she realised, very pleased with himself.
'You did,' she hissed.
Gazing at her flushed little face, dark hair tied back in a
tight pony-tail, the purple shadows under her eyes and not
a scrap of make-up on her face except for hastily applied
coral lipstick that gleamed on that full lower lip, Max
appeared to change his mind.
'I need a holiday too,' he said casually. 'I didn't think
you'd object that much, Evie. After all, I won't be able to
get away again until after Christmas with the shooting
schedule. We've been asked to come in on another production
which will mean either myself or my business partner
have to go abroad to sort it out . . . sorry, I'm boring you.'
He flashed her a glittering smile.
You could never bore me, she found herself thinking.
'I just thought a week by the pool now would be
perfect,' he added. 'If you wait here, I'll find my mother
and Andrew. They were going to the bureau de change.'
'OK,' she muttered as he left abruptly. Evie couldn't
think what else to say. The flurry of emotions she'd felt at
the sight of him retreated before this reasonable explanation.
Yet, paradoxically, she felt upset that he hadn't
changed his plans to see her, that he hadn't turned up at
the airport because he was desperate to go on holiday with
her. That was the stuff of her sweaty night-time dreams:
Max insane to spend time with her; Max rubbing sun
cream into her golden-brown skin as she lay by the pool,
soaking up sweltering heat from both the sun and him.
'I'll just undo your bikini top so I can do your back
properly.' he murmured, as Evie lay face down on the lounger
on a soft blue towel, this strong warm hands had been
caressing her for at least five minutes, rubbing the coconut
scented cream into her toned, peanut butter-coloured body in
languorously slow strokes.
She moved under his expert hands, like a great cat
allowing itself to be touched by human hands for the very
first time, letting the pleasurable sensations shimmer deliriously
through her body. Apart from his caressing voice, the
only sound breaking the tranquil peace of siesta-time was
the distant hissing noise of the water sprinklers showering
the lush lawn to the left of them with cool water. The villa
was silent -- everyone else was asleep, leaving Max and Evie
alone by the white-tiled Moroccan-style pool. Alone for the
first time.
'You don't mind?' he said, already untying the knot of her
tiny white bikini at the nape of her neck before his fingers did
the same with the knot halfway down her back. 'But you
want an all-over colour, don't you?'
Yes,' she breathed as his hands massaged Factor 10 into
her flesh, fingers splaying as they travelled down her rib cage,
exquisitely close to the curve of her breasts.
'You're so beautiful,' he said huskily. 'I never dreamed you had such a beautiful body beneath those baggy clothes you
wear. Why do you hide yourself?'
She knew she had to do it now. Evie moved sinuously,
sitting upright and facing him, hands holding the minuscule
white triangles over her breasts. His eyes were as hot with
wanting as hers were; he needed her just as much as she
needed him. Knowing this, she let her hands and the bikini
drop finally, feeling a flush of passion in her belly as his
eyes roamed over her naked flesh, staring with growing
hunger at her full breasts with their erect nipples aching for
his touch.
One large, tanned hand reached out towards her . . . 'Aaagh!' Evie's shriek made all the people within twenty
yards of her stop what they were doing immediately and
stare open-mouthed in her direction.
'Evie!' cried Cara, shocked, jerking back the hand that
had just touched her sister's shoulder. 'Are you OK? You
looked like you were in dreamland.'
'I'm fine,' Evie gasped. She could hardly say she'd been
having the most deliciously erotic fantasy imaginable and
that Cara had jerked her back to reality. 'I'm just tired,' she
fibbed. 'I almost dozed off'
'You'll never guess who's here,' Cara said excitedly.
'Max! He's coming for the whole week after all.'
Talk of the devil, Evie thought, as the hero of her fantasy
appeared behind her sister, towering over Cara. He was
devilish, a demon who always knew when to turn up to do
the most damage to her vulnerable heart.
Evie briefly wondered if Max could tell what she'd been
thinking. It had been so intense, she felt as if her face must
betray her excitement somehow.
He smiled at her, a lazy, confident smile, as if he knew. He couldn't. It's just that he is so sure of himself, Evie
thought crossly, so bloody sure.
'Here,' she said, thrusting the trolley at Cara but staring
up at Max defiantly. 'You take care of this for a moment.
I'm going to phone Simon.'
With a toss of her pony-tail, she whizzed around on her
new cork wedged-heel sandals and stormed off in the
direction of the phones.
Simon was gratifyingly pleased to hear from her.
'Evie,' he said, delighted at the sound of her voice. "I was
sure you wouldn't ring me until tonight at the villa. Have
you checked in yet? There are terrible queues for those
charters.'
'We're checking in soon,' she reassured him. 'Cara's
minding the luggage and, yes, the queue is a mile long.'
"I bet you didn't leave until after nine this morning,' he
said fussily. "I said you should leave earlier than nine
o'clock if you wanted to get decent seats.'
Don't be such an old woman, she wanted to say. Instead,
she replied mildly that the flight wasn't until half-twelve
and they had loads of time to spare.
'I miss you already,' he said gloomily. 'I should have gone
with you but I'd never get the time off. We're so busy right
now at work.'
'I miss you too,' Evie said automatically and not altogether
truthfully. Then she felt guilty. How could she not
miss her fiance? He'd generously told her to go off on a
week's holiday without him, without once implying she
should be saving her days off for when they were married
so they could both jet off for a break. Simon was so good to
her, so kind.
'I do love you,' she said impulsively. 'When I get home,
it'll only be five weeks to the wedding. Isn't it exciting?'
'Yes, darling. Now don't have too wild a hen night in
Spain,' he warned jokily. 'I don't want you running off with
some handsome Spanish waiter!'
Evie joined in his laughter somewhat halfheartedly
Spanish waiters weren't the problem, she thought wryly.
The danger was much closer to home. Poor, dear Simon
would never for a nanosecond even dream that she'd fancy
another man, which was why he'd made that crack about a
handsome Spaniard.
Hanging up, after blowing lots of kisses down the phone,
Evie went into the Ladies' and rinsed her hot face with
cool water. Instinctively reaching into her handbag for her
make-up to doll herself up, she stopped dead.
What are you doing? Plastering yourself in make-up to
impress Max Stewart? she asked herself. A pale face with
two bright spots of colour in the centre of her cheeks
gazed wearily back at her from the mirror. A traitorous,
trollopy face, she told herself fiercely.
Poor Simon didn't deserve a fiancee like her. He deserved
a virtuous loving woman and that's what he was going to
get. Redoing her pony-tail so that not one tendril of hair
escaped to soften the almost nun-like effect, Evie swept out
of the loo making more resolutions than a reformed alcoholic
after a binge. I won't talk to Max, I won't flirt with
Max. I'll be cool and distant. And phone Simon every day.
Her resolve strengthened, she marched towards the
Malaga check-in desks. 'Watch out, Mr Stewart,' she murmured
under her breath.

Evie was behaving very oddly indeed, Cara decided, flopping
down on to a green chair beside Gate 26 and
scrabbling around in her rucksack for the issue of Company she'd bought earlier. Evie had started being strange around
the time Max had appeared on the scene, practically
ignoring him in a manner that was verging on the rude.
Neither had she seemed very pleased to see Vida and
their father when they arrived, out of breath and laughing
after a scramble to get to the airport on time because
they'd overslept.
That's the last time I leave you in charge of the alarm
clock,' Vida had teased Andrew affectionately.
'And whose fault is it that we were up so late?' he
demanded archly.
They exchanged a private, utterly intimate glance and
then started laughing again. Their closeness and obvious
enjoyment of each other warmed Cara's heart. It was
wonderful to see her father so in love and so happy.
Perhaps that was why Evie was snappier than a teething
puppy. But she hadn't seemed that upset by the older
couple's behaviour, Cara reflected. Apart from a tightlipped
comment that Vida could have told her Max was
coming 'for the whole holiday', Evie hadn't appeared to
notice her father and his new bride behaving like a couple of
teenagers, always touching each other and exchanging long
looks. It was clearly Max who irritated her, although Cara
couldn't imagine why. He was so nice and had told Cara he
wanted to sit beside her on the plane.
'Evie has the seat beside mine but maybe you two
should swop so we can chat,' he'd said.
Cara didn't enlighten him with the news that Evie had
already swopped, muttering that she wanted to read her
book and didn't want to have to make conversation on the
flight.
He and Rosie came into view; Max had obviously said
something funny because Rosie was giggling hysterically.
'God, you'll have to get Max to tell you this story,' she
giggled, sliding into the seat beside Cara. 'It's all about this
actress and the things she wanted on location. Imagine she
wanted two kilos of handmade chocolates, a crate of
bourbon, smoked salmon for her poodles, and Max found
her on her hands and knees measuring the length of her trailer with a ruler to see if it was bigger than everybody
else's!' She broke into peals of laughter.
'I can't tell you top-secret stories if you blab them
immediately afterwards, you brat,' he said in pretend
annoyance, sitting down on the other side of Cara and
stretching out his long legs. He grinned at Rosie and Cara,
white teeth lighting up his tanned, clever face.
God, he was gorgeous, Cara realised, suddenly struck by
the thought that Max was friendly, kind and available.
Gloriously available. And he liked her. He didn't think she
was uptight, strange, and more neurotic than a roomful of
therapy junkies. He hadn't told her she should have been a
celibate. Correction, 'bloody celibate'.
The memory of that final, fierce row with Ewan flickered
in her head like a video she couldn't stop playing.
'I don't know why you bothered going out with me in the
first place,' he had said, forced out of his habitual cool. 'It's a
game to you, Cara, a bloody game! I liked being with you, I
still like being with you and I don't have a problem with
letting people know that. But you don't want anyone to
know we're going out. Nobody. I feel like you're ashamed of
me or there's some weird thing going on in that weird head
of yours and I can tell you, I've had enough of it. So goodbye.'
Goodbye, huh? After four months, a curt goodbye, was
it? Well, she'd show him. Cara fought back the lump that
swelled in her throat, threatening to make her gasp with
misery. She'd show that damned Ewan Walshe she was no
celibate.
Unbuttoning the top two buttons of her blue shirt so
that a faint glimpse of creamy collarbone was visible above
her white T-shirt, she leaned closer so that her shoulder
was touching Max's.
'Sorry,' she said, not even vaguely meaning it. It was
going to be a good holiday, she was sure of it.
The crowd around the baggage carousel in Malaga airport
had practically disappeared, apart from a couple of elderly
lady travellers who were sorting out their cases slowly and
carefully, clutching tapestry vanity cases as if they contained
the Hope diamond and a couple of Romanov tiaras.
Cara sat on her barrel bag and took occasional slurps from
her bottle of Coke. Rosie leaned against a pillar, eyeing up
and being eyed up by a young mahogany-tanned airport
security man. Vida and Andrew stood apart from the
family, talking quietly to each other, seemingly unconcerned
that the carousel had been rattling around for half
an hour and there was no sign of either their or Evie's bags.
Tapping her foot in irritation, Evie watched as the
carousel trundled on and an unclaimed, burst-open suitcase
sailed past them for about the fiftieth time, the same pair
of orange knickers sticking out at exactly the same angle.
'Maybe you should grab it, Mum,' Rosie called from her
eyeing up position. 'Hopefully not everything in there is
orange.'
Cara chuckled and Evie wondered which one of them
she'd kill first: her daughter or her sister. Nobody seemed
to care a damn that her luggage hadn't arrived.
Vida and Andrew were too insulated by love to care that
they hadn't an item of clothing between them. Rosie was
in exuberant form because this was her first grownup
holiday abroad and Cara was sleepily happy after four
hours sitting beside Max, slurping back red wine and
flirting with him over some lukewarm pasta and tunafish.
Across the aisle, Evie had pretended to be engrossed in
her Jilly Cooper novel but she'd barely managed to read a
couple of chapters what with listening to what the other
pair were saying. There had been far too much whispering
and laughing for her liking.
To her chagrin, Max had totally ignored her, apart from
silently letting her go past him when they disembarked, a
polite smile on his face. And now, to add insult to injury,
her luggage was lost in the airport twilight zone and
nobody gave a fiddler's. Evie didn't know whether to kick
something with rage or burst into tears.
"The good news is that they've found your suitcases,' announced Max calmly, returning from his visit to the lost
luggage department. 'The bad news is that they won't be
here until the next flight arrives at nine o'clock tomorrow
morning.'
'What?' squawked Evie.
'Relax,' he said calmly, 'they'll deliver everything to the
villa.'
'Wonderful!' shrieked Evie, knowing she sounded like a
fishwife and not caring.
'It'll be all right,' Max repeated in the same placating tone.
How could he be so calm? she raged inwardly. Because it
wasn't his entire case full of swimwear, shorts and Tshirts
that had gone AWOL. He wasn't the one wearing casual
cream trousers that had got newsprint on them or a Tshirt
that smelled as if it had been worn by a rugby international
during a grudge match. How the hell was she going to go
out to dinner tonight without fresh clothes? What about
her toothbrush, knickers, moisturiser? She was about to
explain all this heatedly when Vida sashayed up, looking
remarkably unconcerned.
'Well, honey, what's the story?' she asked her son in her
soft, American-accented voice. 'Breakfast in Dublin, lunch
in Malaga, bags in Hong Kong?'
Mother and son laughed merrily. Evie ground her teeth.
'That's about the size of it,' joked Max. 'Seriously,
Mother, they'll be here on the nine a.m. flight and they'll
be delivered to the villa.'
Vida shrugged while Evie shook in outrage. How could
anyone joke at a time like this? Vida was so bloody
laid-back about the whole thing - didn't she realise what
had happened?
'Lucky I've got this.' she said confidingly to Evie, indicating
the small tote bag she carried. 'I've got so used to
travelling and getting my luggage lost that I always bring a
small bag with a few things in it. You know, pants and a
change of clothes, toothbrush, that sort of thing. Your dad's
got one too, so we can manage. I hate schlepping it around,
but hey, it's useful. You can borrow from Cars, can't you,
.vie:
This time, she really thought she would cry with frustration.
Yes, she could borrow Cara's stuff but it wasn't the
same. She wanted her own things, her own T-shirt, her own moisturiser, her own toothbrush, her own grapefruit
shower gel she'd treated herself to. She almost sobbed as
she remembered the lovely fruity smell of it and how
pleased she'd felt when she packed it. Now it was all
ruined and nobody understood . . .
When Max slid his arm around her, she didn't experience
that usual frisson of electricity: instead, his arm felt
comforting, loving, somehow right. As if its rightful place
wasn't clinging to some mini-skirted, perma-tanned blonde
but wrapped around her, Evie.
'I'm sorry, we're just kidding around. I know there's
nothing worse than losing your luggage,' he said gently, his
breath fanning her ear as he leaned close. 'Mother hates it
normally, she's just laid-back this time because she's so
happy. The plane could have crashed and she'd be swimming
with the sharks in the Atlantic, saying, "So what? I've
got my overnight bag!"
Evie laughed, a hiccuping sort of laugh, and let herself
re,ax against Max's comforting body. She loved the feel of him. Big and solid, like a bear, yet graceful with it. As
if sensing that she'd let her defences down and was
relaxing, his arm wrapped itself around her, fingers tight
on her waist.
OmiGod! Her spare tyre! Evie sucked her stomach in
anxiously, wishing she could make her waist shrink. Why
hadn't she stuck to the diet? And she must be hot and
sweaty. Could he smell her? She sniffed the air near herself
in horror, afraid she'd get a waft of BO. Why hadn't she
brought any perfume with her - at least a quadruple blast
of Anais Anais would overpower him so that he couldn't
smell armpits that hadn't seen deodorant for hours.
'Come on, let's pick up the cars,' Max said, oblivious to
her frantic sniffing and sucking in tactics. 'There's a guy
waiting around the front with them. We'll stop off on the
way so you can buy some clothes and toiletries. I hate
borrowing other people's stuff and I'm sure you do too.'
Evie nodded.
'Lord, you smell great,' he said, breathing in the scent of
her hair. 'A sort of fresh, fruity smell.'
Evie flushed with pleasure and relief. 'Apple shampoo,'
she volunteered.
'Lovely,' he sighed, kissing the top of her head. 'I must
stink like a long-distance runner. Sorry. How about we all
have an hour in our rooms to beautify ourselves and then
meet up for dinner, my treat?' He was walking her towards
the airport doors as he spoke, still with one arm around
Evie and the other steering his trolley as effortlessly as if he
was steering a bowl of egg whites.
'That sounds lovely,' she said sincerely, and gazed up at
him. 'Thank you, I was on the verge of screaming in there.
I don't know why,' she added.
'Travelling makes people very, very strange,' Max pronounced.
'Look at that pair, for example.'
He raised his eyebrows in amusement as Vida and
Andrew ambled cut of the airport behind them, arms
locked, oblivious to the world around them. Max grinned
at the sight. 'What are the odds that the sun has a
passionate effect on them and we don't set eyes on either
of them until the end of the holiday?'
Evie giggled and realised she didn't mind if her father
and Vida broke the wardrobe and the bed in their room
jumping passionately from one to the other.
'That's not a bet I'd win, so I won't put any money on
it,' she said primly.
'Not a gambling woman, then?' Max asked.
'No, never could afford it,' Evie admitted simply.
'I'll take you to the casino one night, you'll love it. It's
fun,' Max promised. 'And you can get dressed up to the
nines.'
'If I have any clothes,' she said mournfully, thinking of
her lost luggage.
'If you don't,' he said, a wicked sparkle in his deep blue
eyes, 'I'll buy you something devastatingly sexy to wear.'
That was when Evie felt the electric shock vibrate
through her entire body. Something devastatingly sexy to
wear. . . And take off, she thought longingly. Now there
was a thought.
An hour later, she sat on the bed in her room, taking in
the details of its high ceiling, cool white walls, terracotta
tiled floor and creamy muslin curtains rippling in the
evening breeze. Richly carved Spanish wooden furniture
gave the room an opulent feel, while the cerulean blue
embroidered silken bedspread and soft cushions lent an air
of sheer luxury.
The blue and white tiled bathroom was bigger than her
kitchen at home and you could fit two people in the bath,
if you felt inclined to. That wasn't even mentioning the balcony, which looked over an incredible vista, including a
series of the prettiest white stucco villas set amid groves of
orange trees, before your eyes reached the gleaming waters
of the Mediterranean.
The balcony contained a sun lounger and a small white
painted iron table with two chairs which meant she could
practically live in her bedroom, drinking in the sun that
obviously bathed the balcony most of the day. It was a
glorious room, in keeping with the glorious white villa, the
most elegantly luxurious place Evie had ever stayed in her
life. From the moment she'd stepped out of the car and
breathed in the scent of the luscious crimson flowers that
covered the entire walled courtyard at the front, Evie had
felt as if she was living in a fairy tale.
She still felt slightly dazed by the whole trip, as if the
sparkling, vivacious woman who'd sat in the front of the
white Seat Toledo with Max had been a stranger. She
hadn't been anything like the normal Evie Fraser, that was
for certain. She'd been relaxed, happy and confident. It
was like a drug running through her veins making her into
a different person. Or maybe Max was the drug. Then, to
arrive at this beautiful house set in the hills behind the
Puerto Banus bull ring. Enclosed behind a high wall and
with wooden gates, the villa looked like something from
the Hollywood Homes of the Famous tour she'd seen on
documentaries about Los Angeles.
Inside the gates, it was just as incredible: a verandah that
stretched around the whole building, loungers and tali urns
overflowing with succulent plants dotted at intervals
around it; a pool and blossom-filled garden not a million
miles away from the ones in Evie's fantasies; and a giant
airy open-plan room that took up the entire lower storey
of the villa containing a raised dining area, a marble
miracle of a kitchen and a sunken seating area with huge
floral sofas, wooden coffee tables and a giant stone fireplace
should you feel cold.
'As if.' Rosie had said with delight when she'd seen it.
'Imagine being cold in Spain!' she enthused.
Oil paintings hung on the walls, pottery and silver
treasures decorated each occasional table and the entire
place reeked of being loved and lived in. Remembering the
cramped one-bedroomed apartment she, Rosie and Cara
had shared many years ago, with its consignment of
cockroaches and a kitchen equipped for only the most
basic cooking, Evie stared around the Villa Lucia in awe.
This place must have cost Max a fortune. How could she
repay him?
She'd thought they were going to some squashed little
cottage where she, Rosie and probably Cara would have to
share a twin room with somebody sleeping on a camp bed.
This place was a bloody palace!
She stripped off her travel-stained clothes and stood
under the shower until she'd washed away what felt like a ton of grime. In fact, the opalescent pink soap she'd picked
up in the local supermarket had a subtle musky smell that
she almost preferred to her grapefruit gel. And even
though she didn't have her favourite apple shampoo, the
almond-scented one she'd bought was just as good.
Wrapped in a giant creamy towel, Evie sat on her
balcony and let the dying rays of the sun envelop her. She
loved the sensation of the sun on her face and sat, eyes
closed, face turned up skywards, for ages before suddenly
realising she only had fifteen minutes to get ready. As if on
cue, Cara marched into the room clutching several items of
clothing that all seriously needed ironing.
'This is the best I can do,' she said apologetically, sinking
on to the bed with her crumpled offerings.
Rejecting the peasant blouse in crimson because it was too bright, Evie held a sea green silk shirt up to her face
and grimaced.
'Makes me look hungover,' she groaned.
Cara laughed. 'Then I'd better not wear it tomorrow
when I plan to be really hungover. I'd look as if I was on
the critical list.'
Cara's taste in tops was almost puritanical - lots of
high-necked things that didn't cling. Her trousers were the
same, baggy and unrevealing in the extreme. As Evie was
so much shorter and of a totally different build, there was
no way most of Cara's clothes would fit her. She'd look like
a child after an hour in an adult's wardrobe because the
sleeves and hems were all way too long.
The only garment that wouldn't make her look like a
precocious child was Cara's new dress: a remarkably
revealing mid-length sleeveless brown shift in crinkly viscose,
the sort of thing that wasn't supposed to wrinkle,
which was fortunate given Cara's packing technique of
cramming everything in higgledy-piggledy and to hell with
the creases.
'This new?' asked Evie, thinking it was years since she'd
seen her sister wear anything with such a low-cut neck.
She'd bet it looked stunning on Cara.
'Yeah,' Cara replied, 'I got it for the holiday, thought I'd
break out and wear something a bit different. I'm not sure
now. You'd be able to see my tonsils down the front.'
'Don't be daft. It'd be gorgeous on you, Cara. You should
flaunt yourself a bit more. I'm glad to see Ewan is having a
positive effect on you. I hate those bloody combats.'
Cara did not want to be drawn into a conversation about
Ewan. 'Try it on,' she urged. 'It's a weird length on me so
it's probably perfect for you.'
The dress wasn't the most flattering colour Evie had
ever worn, as the combination of brown hair and brown
dress was a bit overpoweringly chocolatey, unless you wanted to look like an eclair. But it fitted and certainly
clung in all the right places, undulating around her small
waist and flaring out over her hips to end in a swirl around
her ankles.
'Sorted,' Cara said. 'I can't lend you shoes, I'm afraid.'
She held up one bare size eight foot ruefully.
Fifteen minutes later, Evie was tottering along in a pair
of what Cara had described as 'Rosie's fuck me sandals'
when she'd seen them.
'She's only kidding, Mum,' a white-faced Rosie had
hastened to point out, before shooting her aunt a killer
look. 'They're fashionable, everyone's wearing them.'
Everyone must have bunions then, Evie decided, after a
mere five minutes strapped into the shoes. It was like
wearing shoe boxes attached to your feet with chicken
wire. Still, they looked dressy and were about ten times
more suitable than the cream loafers she'd worn on the
plane. With lots of Olivia's precious Lancome eyeshadow
in place and her hair shining after a quick blast from
Rosie's hairdryer, Evie felt ready for anything.
However, any confidence she'd been injected with on
the trip from Malaga to Puerto Banus disappeared as if by
magic when she stepped into Ristorante Regina. The style,
glamour and effortless chic of the other female diners hit
her like a Force Nine hurricane. Tanned, beautifully made
up and looking as if they'd all just climbed out of Versace's
window with a detour via Bulgari for jewellery, they made
her feel instantly out of place.
The men were just as bad, all elegant and exquisitely
dressed. Max blended in perfectly, handsome in grey
trousers and a cream polo shirt that showed off his golden
skin. Rosie looked glorious in a crimson mini dress, Cara
was bolshie as usual in black combats and the striking sea green shirt with her hair rippling down her back like a
Pre-Raphaelite maiden, and Evie - well, Evie felt as drab as
a mallard's wife in her dowdy brown dress. It had looked
OK in her bedroom; not marvellous, but not hideous
either.
Now, she wanted to rush into the nearest boutique,
throw her Visa card at the assistant and screech: 'Find me
something suitable to wear! I don't care about the cost'.'
And dump Cara's dress in the nearest bin.
To make matters worse, their table wasn't in some
gloomy corner where Evie could hide behind a potted
plant or at least blend into the background. No. Their party
was escorted to a table in the middle of the restaurant,
where all the other glamorous diners could watch them.
Feeling as if she had headlice and everyone could tell,
Evie slid into her seat and immediately pulled the peach
linen napkin on to her lap. She wished she could pull it
over her head so nobody could see her.
Max immediately sat beside her, smiling broadly. 'You'll
love this place,' he said. 'The food is exquisite and the
people who run it are so friendly.'
If she hadn't been feeling so underdressed and out of place, Evie knew she would have loved it. The restaurant
was so pretty, the walls a melange of peach and
terracotta, with flowers, flourishing plants, beautiful
glassware and sepia-toned movie-star photographs adding
to the effect. As it was, she hid behind her huge menu
and studied it intently. She barely lowered it when a
beautiful blonde woman wearing what looked like a
Gucci jumpsuit entertained the whole table by telling
them the restaurant's specials for the night, switching
from English to perfectly accented Italian when she
named Italian dishes, and to Spanish when she named
Spanish dishes.
There are more specials than dishes on the menu,'
chuckled Max, as he went back to his. 'You pick something
then they tell you about fifteen other gorgeous things you
immediately decide to have instead.'
Despite all the exotic-sounding courses on the menu,
Evie didn't feel in the slightest bit hungry any more.
Peering around her, she spotted one elegant brunette in a
grape-coloured silk sheath reaching for her pre-dinner
drink: something in a pretty triangular glass with a couple
of olives in it.
That was it - she'd have a Martini. They were classy and
elegant, Evie sniffed. Nobody would think she was a bog
woman when she was sipping a Martini.
'Vodka or gin?' inquired the waiter politely when she
asked for it.
'Vodka,' Evie said recklessly, knowing that a moment's
hesitation would let everyone know she'd assumed Martini
came straight out of the Martini bottle. Did they put vodka
in as well? Of course, they must, she realised, thinking that
James Bond always wanted a vodka one.
'Olives or a twist?' inquired the waiter.
'Olives,' she smiled, since she wasn't sure what a twist
was. When the drinks came Vida was regaling everyone
with stories of her first time abroad with her first husband
and how she'd drunk the tap water in her tiny Greek hotel
room and been sick for three days. Acting nonchalantly,
Evie took one confident sip of her elegant Martini and
nearly choked. Christ! It tasted like neat vodka.
'I never had you down as a Vodka Martini woman,' Max
murmured under his breath.
'Just love them,' said Evie gaily, taking another throat
burning gulp. The fiery liquid was doing its work: hitting
her stomach like molten fire and spreading its heady
warmth throughout her entire body. Halfway down the glass already, Evie, who practically never drank more than a
couple of weak G & Ts, decided she'd have another.
If Max was surprised, he didn't say anything. Cara wasn't
so reticent. 'Evie, you never drink Martinis,' she pointed
out.
'Yes, I do,' she replied loftily. 'Maybe I'll borrow your
hangover shirt tomorrow!' Going off into a fit of giggles,
she finished her first drink, swallowed her olives and
started on the next one.
Not even the delicious risotto she had for a starter could
compete with the neat vodka swilling around inside her
and Evie was soon well on the way to being plastered. No
longer caring that she looked drab and uninteresting, she
winked at her Martini waiter and waggled her empty glass
at him.
'You sure you want another?' asked Max gently. He put
an arm around her shoulders and she practically purred at
his touch. 'Maybe you should have a glass of wine instead.'
Evie raised her eyebrows haughtily. "I can decide for
myself, you know. No man tells me what to do. I fancy a
drink, that's all.'
Max grabbed the finger she'd been pointing at him. 'Fair
enough, Ms Fraser, I don't want you to batter me. I simply
don't want you to have a hangover in the morning.'
Smiling delightedly, Evie screwed up her eyes at him.
'Why?' she demanded coquettishly. 'Have you exciting
plans for me?'
For a moment, Max dropped his guard and the laughing
expression left his face. 'Yes,' he said simply. 'If you let me.'
The waiter set her third Martini in front of Evie. Feeling
suddenly sobered up, nervous and excited all at the same
time, she took a sip, anything to gain a moment's respite
from the intense expression on Max's face.
This was dangerous, so dangerous. She'd said she wasn't
a gambling person and yet here she was gambling with her
heart, her future and with the affections of two men as if
she was a high roller in Monte Carlo.
'Not having another, Evie?' called Andrew across the
table, shattering the intimate moment.
'Oh, Dad,' groaned Evie, 'not you too. Anyone would
swear I was a teenager with her first shandy to listen to
you lot!'
'Tell me about it,' muttered Rosie, who'd had terrible
trouble persuading her grandfather to let her have one
glass of wine.
'I thought we could drive to Ronda tomorrow,' Vida
said, changing the subject because she sensed arguments
looming. 'We can flop out by the pool in the afternoon but
it'd be lovely to do some sightseeing in the cool of the
morning.'
'Sounds brill,' said Cara, who got bored lying by the pool
and was never too bothered about getting a tan. 'Doesn't
it?' she said to Rosie.
'Yeah,' said Rosie, who longed to be mahogany immediately
and had planned to stay glued to a sun lounger with
her head in a book for hours each day.
Vida and Andrew began discussing what they'd read
from their guide book about the region.
'Ronda is in a beautiful, mountainous position, and
involves a nerve-racking road trip,' Max said, not looking at
Evie. 'Not the sort of drive to take when you're hangover.'
She raised her glass defiantly and sank her third Martini,
by now used to the fiery taste. 'Really?' she said cheerfully.

Bright lights hit Evie's head like the headlamps of an
oncoming truck. They burned into her closed eyes,
making her aware of the red hot needles being jammed
into her skull.
'Go 'way,' she croaked, vainly trying to get hold of the
sheet and cover her head with it to block out the agonisingly
painful light.
'Mum, you have to get up,' Rosie shouted. At least, it
sounded as if she was shouting.
'Don't yell,' Evie said weakly.
'I'm not,' yelled Rosie, opening the other curtain to let
daylight pierce the gloom of the bedroom.
She sat on the bed beside her mother's inert form and
looked at the grey face on the pillow. 'I've got some orange
juice for you. I'm sure you're dead thirsty.'
Quite how her seventeen-year-old daughter knew that a
hangover made you thirsty Evie didn't know, but she
stored the information at the back of her head and decided
she'd deal with that later. Right now, she had to cope with
what was obviously either a brain haemorrhage or the
worst hangover she'd ever had in her life. Lying prone, she
felt as if the whole bed was vibrating, her body was bathed
in a cold sweat and her skull was being Kangohammered
from the inside.
'We're going to Ronda in about half an hour, if you're up
to it,' Rosie said. 'It's half-nine now. Vida and Grandpops
got the most amazing little rolls and honey for breakfast
and we had it on the verandah. I'd love to sunbathe,' she
added, 'but Grandpops and Vida have their heart set on a
sightseeing trip. Will you come?'
Evie moved a fraction in the bed and the Kangohammer
went into overdrive. 'God, no,' she moaned. 'I'm
dying, Rosie. I can't go anywhere.'
'That's what Cara said,' her daughter replied prosaically.
'I've never seen you drunk before, Mum. You were very
funny.'
Funny? Evie feebly tried to remember the night before.
She could remember the Martinis and something funny
about shrimps . . . oh, yes, feeding Max garlicky shrimps as
if he was a seal, insisting he eat them as she dangled them
over his mouth. And did she bang into the door on her way
out? Or was it a person . . .
'It's just as well Max was here, otherwise we'd have
never got you up the stairs,' Rosie explained, blithely
unaware of how devastating her words were to her
mortally embarrassed mother. 'Cara said she could probably
manage to give you a fireman's lift but Max just
picked you up as easily as if you were Sasha.' In her
tangled sheets, Evie burned with shame. Max picking her
up when she had passed out, after she'd been force
feeding him shrimps and bashing drunkenly into people
and doors on the way out. What must he think of her?
He'd taken them all to that beautiful restaurant to celebrate
their holiday and she'd got plastered and made a
holy show of herself. Evie burrowed deeper into the bed
with the disgrace of it all. She felt humiliated, demeaned
and utterly mortified. She'd just remembered passing out
once they got back to the villa.
'Are you dying?' asked Cara, loudly and irritatingly
good-humouredly, plonking herself on the bed and jarring
Evie's painful head.
'Yes,' she moaned. She lifted her head an inch from the
pillow, opened her glued-up eyes again and asked: 'Was I
dreadful? What did I do?'
'You were fine,' Cara said, 'apart from when you got up
on top of the coffee table downstairs when you tried to
pull up your dress to show us your appendectomy scar . . ,'
'Oh, no,' Evie wailed before she realised she didn't have
an appendectomy scar.
'Only kidding!' chuckled Cara. 'Listen, Evie, you got
drunk, you passed out, you were fine. Big deal. We all do it.'
"I don't,' she said tearfully.
'Well, you obviously needed to or you wouldn't have,'
Cara said with irrefutable logic.
'You were fine, Mum,' Rosie piped up. 'You had a big
conversation with Vida about how you were sorry you
were such a bitch to her before and that you didn't mind
if, er . . .' Rosie hesitated, '. . . you didn't mind what she
and Grandpops did.'
Not caring if her head fell off or not, Evie sat up shakily
in bed and stared at her daughter. An appalling feeling that
some part of this conversation was familiar crept over her.
'What were you going to add, Rosie?' she asked. 'What
did I really say? Tell me.' Her voice was shrill with horror.
Rosie looked away cagily.
'Please,' begged Evie. It mightn't be as bad as she
thought . . .
'What you actually said,' began Cara, 'was that you
didn't give a fiddler's toss if they broke the bed and the
wardrobe bouncing from one to the other having sex, so
long as they were happy together.'
Evie's feverish hangover faded into an icy sweat and she
lay down in the bed in shock. Being drunk obviously
meant you parrotted things you'd thought earlier but
would never have said aloud in a million years. If she'd said that to Vida, who knew what she'd said to Max under the
truth drug effect of half a litre of vodka? Probably that she
wanted him to take her to bed and make mad passionate
love to her.
The fact that it was true was immaterial. That made it
worse. In vino veritas, people always said. Now Max
would know she was crazily in love with him, Vida would
know she'd hated her for ages and the inhabitants of
Puerto Banus would know she was Ireland's Bog Woman
of the Year, incapable of going anywhere even vaguely
sophisticated without carrying on like some dopey heifer
who'd never been out of Bally-go-backwards before. That
was it: she wanted to die. Now, as soon as possible, before
she had to face Vida her father or most especially Max,
ever again.
'Is Evie coming with us?' called Andrew from the
bottom of the stairs.
'No,' Cara yelled back. She got off the bed and kissed
her sister on the forehead. 'We'll see you later, sis.'
Evie wished everyone would stop yelling. Didn't they
know she had a hangover?
'Are you sure you're all right on your own?' asked Rosie
anxiously, perching beside her. 'I'll stay with you, Mum.
You look as if you need cheering up.'
Evie managed a weak smile. She'd feel a complete
failure as a mother if her drunken behaviour meant Rosie
had to miss a sightseeing trip on the first day of her
holiday. 'I'm fine, darling, really. I just need some sleep and
I'll be right as rain when you get back, I promise.'
Rosie left reluctantly, after making sure Evie had a big
glass of orange juice beside her and some fruit by the bed
in case she got hungry. Some hope, Evie thought, eyeing
the basket of grapes, apricots and peaches. Just looking at a
peach could make her projectile vomit like the kid from The Exorcist.
When she heard the front door slam, Evie sank back into
her pillows with relief She needed to be on her own to
cope with the embarrassment and her hangover.
She drank her orange juice thirstily, barely tasting the
just-squeezed juice as it rushed down her throat, slaking
the hangover thirst. No sooner had she finished the last
drop than she became aware that orange juice wasn't the
right thing to drink with an acidic stomach.
Feeling the bile rise in her throat, she dragged herself out
of the bed, staggered into the bathroom and was sick over and over again. Her stomach hurt and her throat was raw
from puking. She was so tired, she sat clutching the toilet
bowl for support, wondering if she'd ever get the energy to
stand up.
'How's the patient?' said a voice.
Max! He hadn't gone with the others after all. Had he
heard her puking?
'Go away,' croaked Evie, so weakly and feebly that he
barely heard. She wanted him to leave her to her misery.
But instead of going away, he marched into the room, saw
her on the bathroom floor through the wide open door
and hurried in to comfort her.
'You poor baby,' he crooned, hugging her, regardless of
the fact that she smelt hot, sweaty and sick,
Another spasm grabbed Evie and she had no option but
to retch again, this time with Max's strong arms supporting
her,
'That's right, Evie, get it all out of your system. You'll
feel OK when it's all gone.' She sank back on to the floor,
too sick to feel embarrassed. At least whoever had dragged
her clothes off the night before had put a T-shirt on her, so
she wasn't naked. But with her hair plastered to her head
and her face green, she might as well have been. She
certainly felt vulnerable and bare enough.
'Sit there and I'll clean you up,' Max said, his voice as
gentle as if he was talking to a small child or a frightened
animal. He soaked a face cloth in cool water and gently
washed Evie's face, neck and hands with it until she felt
marginally better.
'Your T-shirt's a bit manky,' he said. 'I'll get you a clean
one of mine.'
He returned quickly with a soft marl grey T-shirt, a small
tablet and a glass of water with some grainy powder
dissolving inside.
'Maxolon, perfect for your stomach, and this is something
to replace the lost salts in your body,' he explained,
gesturing to the glass. 'I'll look away while you pull off
your T-shirt and put on mine.'
She was so weak she'd almost have let him change her
clothes, but she didn't. As she pulled his T-shirt over her
head, a faint hint of the cologne she always associated with
him filled her nostrils. A fresh, clean smell, like seawater on
a warm summer's day. She breathed it in, her heart tender
with longing. It felt wonderfully comforting to be wearing
his clothes.
If this was the closest she was going to get to him, it was
still wonderful.
Max made her drink the water and take the tablet before
he picked her up and carried her back to bed. She felt too
weak to reflect on the fact that he must have carried her
like this the night before when she was roaring with drink
and had passed out. Tucking her in like she used to Rosie,
he kissed her on the forehead tenderly. 'Sleep for a couple
of hours, my darling, and you'll feel much better. Then, I'm
getting you up and making you something to eat.'
'I'll never eat again,' she said weakly.
'Yes, you will, after a few hours and those tablets, you'll
feel fine and be ravenous.'
He shut the curtains, blocking out the sun to Evie's
relief.
'Thank you,' she said, even in her weakened state
unbelievably touched by how kind he was being to her.
Max didn't reply. He merely blew a kiss to her and left
the room quietly. Snuggled up in his T-shirt, Evie let Max's
face fill her thoughts. He was so kind, so sensitive. Imagine
him holding her as she had her head down the loo. Not
many people would do that for someone other than their
own child.
She certainly couldn't imagine Simon doing it, He was
the queasiest person imaginable: hated the smell of hospitals
and nearly got sick at the sight of blood.
But then, Simon wasn't Max, was he?
The next time she woke up it was midday and she felt a
hundred times better. Her head still hurt but the Kangohammer
was gone. So was the nausea and the sense that
the entire bed was quivering like a jelly.
Tentatively, Evie stretched one leg to the floor and
levered herself into a sitting position. She felt weak but her
skull didn't threaten to explode and her stomach felt
almost normal.
Grateful that the worst was over, she padded into the
bathroom and ran a bath. The restorative powers of the
warm water soothed her aching body and by the time she
was wrapping herself in one of the big towels, she felt
quite good.
A soft tap on the door made her jump nervously.
'It's me,' said Max, 'with breakfast or lunch, whatever
you want to call it.'
He laid the tray on the small iron table on the sun-filled
balcony and Evie was amazed to find she was hungry. The
scent of the coffee and the aroma of the mound of
succulent scrambled eggs made her stomach contract.
Silently, Max laid places for two people before sitting
down with his back to the sun facing Evie. Strangely
enough, she didn't feel in the least uncomfortable even
though she was only wearing a huge bathtowel wrapped
around her body, with her still damp hair hanging limply
on her shoulders.
Max had seen her at her worst - plastered drunk and
puking desperately into a toilet bowl. Washed and clad in a
towel was an improvement, surely? She grinned to herself
at the thought of what Lorraine and all the girls at
Wentworth Alarms would do if they saw her now, sitting
undressed with the most gorgeous dark hunk imaginable.
'You lucky cow!' Lorraine would certainly screech
delightedly. Evie found she couldn't keep the laughter to
herself and it bubbled out of her.
Max raised one eyebrow. 'Have you been slurping back
the vodka again?' he joked.
This made Evie laugh even harder. 'No,' she gasped,
pulling the edges of her towel together as it threatened to
come undone. 'I'm just thinking how this looks.' She went
off into howls of laughter again.
'You, me in a towel, having late breakfast.'
'For it to look really bad, you should let your towel drop
and I should eat my scrambled eggs off you,' pointed out
Max, pouring coffee. 'Then you could shriek a bit in
passion and we'd see the neighbours peering out of their
windows to find out what was going on. The nonresident
neighbours,' he added. 'The Spanish ones are so laid-back,
they'd just shrug and smile to think that the beautiful Irish senorita was having fun.'
Evie grinned broadly. She was having fun, although a
couple of hours ago she wouldn't have believed she'd ever
have fun again.
'Was I terrible last night?' she asked, picking up her fork.
'Forget last night and eat up,' chided Max.
'I know I was,' Evie said, through a mouthful of eggs.
'God, these are delicious. I want to say I'm sorry, Max. I
never drink Martinis, I don't know what came over me.'
She grimaced. 'Ever heard the old joke about how some
people have to be taken to certain places twice - once to
go and once to apologise?'
'Forget it,' he repeated. 'You needed to let your hair
down. Eat up because we're going out.'
'But I've no clothes,' she protested.
'Your suitcase arrived first thing this morning and I
brought it upstairs. Cara dragged it into your room earlier.'
'I never even noticed it,' Evie groaned, 'I must have been
in a bad way. Where do you want to go and what about the
others?' she asked. 'They'll be back soon and they'll expect
us to be here and . . .'
Max touched her face tenderly with one hand, tracing
the curve of her cheek with infinite gentleness. 'You've had
to spend too much of your life looking after other people,'
he said, his voice as soft as his hand. 'This is your holiday
too. I want you to enjoy yourself, just have fun. We'll leave
a note saying we'll be back later. Rosie will hardly come to
any harm with your dad and my mother, will she? The
white slave trade doesn't get going until at least midnight!'

Evie wondered if the pretty backstreets of Marbella would
have looked as lovely if she had seen them with someone
else, someone other than Max? Wandering slowly through
winding streets, past orange-tree-filled courtyards and little
shops selling gorgeous blue and white pottery, the afternoon
slipped by in a blur.
She wasn't sure how it had happened - perhaps it was
when the kids on bikes had sped dangerously fast down
one narrow lane, so that Max had to pull her safely out of
their way - but he was holding her hand. Not loosely, the
way Simon did when he briefly forgot his motto of never
demonstrating affection in public and held on to her
tensely. Max's strong fingers curled around Evie's small
hand in a way that felt very different from when Simon
did it.
They walked like that for ages, looking in shop windows,
admiring the architecture and talking. They talked about
everything imaginable, with just one exception: what was
happening to them. Evie didn't want to break the magic
spell by discussing how she felt or mentioning Simon's
name. Not that he was at the forefront of her mind,
exactly. But she couldn't help but think about him when
they passed a jewellery shop crammed with ginormous
engagement rings. She was getting married in a few weeks'
time, Evie realised dully, and here she was having the most
wonderful time of her life with a man who wasn't her
fiance. A man she was crazy about.
She couldn't think about that now; she'd blank it out
and deal with it later. Just enjoy the moment, she told
herself, desperately wanting to break the habit of a lifetime
and stop worrying. And, incredibly, she managed it. Simply
being with Max made her block out all the anxious, tense
feelings. She let them go and let herself drift off into the
pleasure of the here and now.
After they'd strolled along the beachfront and had a cup
of coffee in a tiny bar listening to the sea lapping gently
against the sand, they walked back up to where they'd
parked the car.
On an impulse, Evie turned to Max. 'Why don't we go
to dinner ourselves here, have something early instead of
waiting to go back to the villa? The others won't mind.
We'll phone and say what we're doing.'
The gleam in Max's eyes was her answer.
Andrew answered the phone, saying he was exhausted
after practically an entire day spent sightseeing instead of
the planned couple of hours. 'Vida was navigating and
we took a wrong turn, nearly ended up heading for
Madrid. We're all shattered and are thinking of just
nipping out for a pizza in that place near the Andalucia
Plaza. When will you be back? Will we bring home a
takeaway for you?'
'No, Dad, that's kind of you but don't bother. Max and I
have been shopping in Marbella and we're hungry, so maybe we'll grab something to eat here,' Evie said, trying
to sound blase.
'OK. I'm glad to see you two are getting on after all,' her
father confided in a low voice. 'It means a lot to me that
you've accepted Max. He's Vida's only family, you know.
I've got you three girls. Anyway,' his voice returned to
normal, 'I'll see you later.'
Evie hung up, feeling like a teenager who'd just got away
with lying about being at her friend's house doing homework
so she could see her boyfriend.
Giddy with the delight of spending more time with
Max, she chattered away nineteen to the dozen as they
walked, hair swinging on her shoulders and her eyes
shining.
She looked beautiful, Max thought, watching her
animated face as she chattered eagerly, huge hazel eyes
alight with energy. Flicking back strands of hair as she
talked, Evie was like a little whirlwind, lively and
fascinating. How much more relaxed she looked when
the weight of the world was off those narrow shoulders,
Max realised. How he wanted to take away all her
worries and make her look like this all the time: happy,
carefree and able to enjoy life. He felt there were so
many things he didn't know about Evie, things nobody
knew. She was too proud.
Max could tell that she'd suffered in her life, that she
still hid the scars of past sadnesses under that usually
uptight facade. If only he could let her see that he loved
her so she would let him past the facade, they could be so
blissfully happy together. If only. Yet she was like a deep
lake, full of uncharted depths she'd never revealed to
anyone, and if he dived in the wrong place at the wrong
time, she might never forgive him. Evie would have to
reveal her secrets when she wanted to and not before.
'You aren't listening to a word I'm saying,' she teased,
swatting him lightly. 'It's like having a conversation with
Rosie when she's glued to Friends.'
'Excuse me, missus, I always listen to you, except when
you're muttering on about how the other women in the
place looked gorgeous and you haven't a thing to wear.'
'Pig!' squealed Evie, slapping him this time. 'Did I say
that?' she asked with a grimace.
Max let go of her hand and wrapped his arm comfortably
around her shoulders before replying. 'Yes, and I don't
know why. You're fifty times more beautiful than any one
of those painted women.'
Ecstatic with pleasure, she slid her arm around his waist,
marvelling at his words. He preferred her to the other
glammed-up women in their designer clothes and designer
hair-dos, he really did. And she believed him. She didn't
bother sucking in her stomach so her waist would feel
skinnier. She didn't need any of that pretence with Max.
As they arrived in picturesque Orange Square, the sun
was filtering through the fruit trees, gilding some of the
tables under the trees with sunlight, leaving others in
blissful shade. Max and Evie sat in the shade with glasses of
cool white wine and gorged themselves on mussels with
soft bread to soak up the juices.
'I feel a bit guilty for leaving Rosie on her own,' Evie
confessed. 'I probably should be with her today. This
holiday is so special for her.'
'Your first grown-up holiday is always special,' Max
remarked, 'and it's obvious how close you two are. But she'd
probably kill for the opportunity to swank around on her
own, without anyone apart from Cara, I imagine. Cara looks
enough like her sister for the pair of them to be a couple of
Club 1 8-30 girls, completely devoid of parental guidance, on
the lookout for talent. I daresay that would be Rosie's dream.'
Evie thought about what he'd said. He was right, she
admitted grudgingly. Rosie would love to be able to
socialise without her mother and grandfather. It was just
difficult to let her daughter go.
'It's not easy,' she explained. 'I want her to be independent,
to be her own woman. That's what I taught her. But . . .'
'. . . letting go isn't easy,' Max said softly. 'I guess there's
a happy medium. We should let Cara take her out one
evening, just to see how it goes. And I'll take you.'
'They'll talk about us,' Evie warned.
'No, they won't.' Max stroked her cheek lovingly. 'I'll tell
Mother and Andrew to go for a romantic evening by
themselves and then we'll slope off on our own for our romantic evening.'
'It's a deal!'
They were both silent as they drove along the road from
Marbella to Puerto Banus. To keep her mind off the truly
important matter, Evie was thinking that she hadn't actually
bought anything, despite telling her father they'd been
shopping. Hopefully, nobody would notice. Nobody
appeared to. In the villa, everyone was slumped around the
television watching an old Chevy Chase video.
'Cara insisted on getting it out of the video shop,' said
Rosie by way of explanation as her mother sat down beside
her.
'Shush!' hissed Cara.
'You must be feeling better,' Rosie whispered to Evie.
'You look great. I thought you'd still be in bed when we
got back.'
'I slept a bit and then Max offered to take me for a drive
this afternoon when you lot weren't back,' Evie said. 'I was
a bit bored without you.'
'You were bored!' giggled Rosie. 'Try spending four hours
in the car with Grandpops and Vida alternating between
squabbling over the map, and then kissing and making up.
If Grandpops said "you should never let the sun set on
your anger" one more time, I'd have got out of the car and
hitchhiked. I thought we'd never get home!'
'It is one of his favourite expressions,' her mother
answered- 'Although I think his ail-time favourite is "Oh,
Evie, you do fuss over me"!' They both got a fit of the
giggles this time.
A fierce glare from Cara, who'd had a huge crush on
Chevy Chase in her teens, silenced them.
While everyone else enjoyed the movie, Evie sat quietly,
eyes on the screen but her mind a million miles away. Max
rarely spoke to her the rest of the evening, he was as coolly
formal as he'd been the day before. Polite but distant.
Well, she thought, he understood that she didn't want
anybody else to know about their new relationship. But his
distant demeanour after their wonderful day made her feel
subdued, as if she'd imagined it.
It was only when she was going to bed that he got a
chance to speak to her privately. She'd gone into the
kitchen to get some water when Max pulled her gently on
to the verandah where they couldn't be seen.
'I've wanted to do this all evening,' he said, his eyes
warm. 'I've been going mad pretending nothing's going on
when I want to sit beside you and hold your hand like
some besotted lover'
Relief washed over her.
'You were barely looking at me,' she said, insecurity
making her painfully honest. 'I wasn't sure what to think.'
'Evie,' he said, taking her face in his hands and gazing
adoringly at her, 'I'm doing that for you. I'm free, I'm here
for you, but you're engaged to be married and it's up to
you to decide what to tell your family and when to tell
them. I don't have the right to do that and,' he grinned, 'I daresay you'd murder me if I did.'
She nodded ruefully. 'You're right, it's just that I thought
I'd imagined it all, that you hadn't really spent this
wonderful day with me . . .' She stared gloomily at her
feet, pink-painted toes peeking out of the cork sandals.
'This,' he whispered, lifting her face up, 'is what I've
wanted to do all day.'
His mouth came down on hers, softly at first, lips gently
brushing against hers. Then his kiss deepened, his mouth
crushed hers and they clung together, tongues entwining
joyfully, clutching each other's bodies as if their lives
depended on it.
For the first time, Evie felt herself melt into a kiss; she
gave herself completely up to Max and felt him give
himself to her. Perfect, sexy, delicious. Her legs felt weak at
the strength of the body crushed against hers.
His mouth and hers melted together and she knew she
wanted more from him; she wanted to feel his body naked
against hers, spend hours getting to know every rib, every
silken inch of skin, every sinew . . .
'Mom, are you out here?'
Jumping apart as if they'd been scalded, Evie threw
herself on to a lounger and Max rushed over to the
verandah wall. He was sitting, idly staring out at the pool,
when Rosie poked her head round the door.
'Oh, hi. I thought you'd gone to bed,' she said.
'Really?' Evie replied calmly. 'I just thought I'd cool off
before going upstairs. Max had the same idea.'
'No, I doubt if these flowers would grow in Ireland,' he
said, as if he'd been interrupted discussing the Andalucian
flora at great length, instead of having his tongue down
Evie's throat and his hands roaming seductively under her
T-shirt. 'What sort of soil do you have in your garden,
Evie?'
She stifled an urge to snigger and replied: 'Acidic. Great for rhododendrons.'
'Honestly!' Sighing with exasperation, Rosie hauled herself
on to the verandah wall, stretching out her long,
fake-tanned legs and admiring the leather mules she'd
bought in the mountains that afternoon after some thoroughly
satisfying bargaining. 'Here we are in the most
romantic spot in the world and we're all drearily stuck at
home instead of being out in some great club sampling the
real Spanish nightlife, with you lot talking about flowers!'
She snorted with frustration. 'I hope we're not going to be
doing this every night. I want to have some fun!'
Evie didn't dare look at Max or she'd have broken into
hysterical laughter.
'You and Cara should go out together some night,' she
said. 'On your own.'
'Really?' The surprise on Rosie's sun-kissed face was
palpable. Bouncing over to her mother, Rosie hugged her
fervently. 'You won't regret it, Mum. I'll be ever so well
behaved. I just need to get out, you know what I mean.'
'I know,' Evie said gravely. 'Just be careful, that's all.'

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

It was three o'clock, when all native Iberians were resting
and the sun was very hot. Evie knew she'd have to get into
the pool soon to cool down or risk turning lobster red, in
spite of all the sun protection cream she'd been assiduously
rubbing into herself.
'Evie, is there any left in that bottle?' asked Cara lazily
from her position on the lounger on the other side of
Rosie's.
Without upsetting either her perfectly positioned sun
hat or the book balanced on her knees, Evie delicately
lobbed the blue plastic bottle of factor twelve over to her
sister. The bottle fell short and landed between them on
Rosie's flat stomach, which was turning a coffee colour
after five days of intensive tanning.
'Ouch!' she yelped, waking up. 'What do you want this
much protection for?' she demanded, squinting at the
bottle. 'I'm using factor four,' she added with the pride of
the young and unwrinkled.
This time Evie did dislodge her hat and book as she sat up
in shock.' Factor four!' she gasped. 'You'll get skin cancer, you
stupid girl. Put something stronger on immediately.'
'Oh, Mom,' groaned Rosie, lying down again. 'Stop
panicking. I'm darker skinned than you. Like Max. He just
has to sit out for five minutes and he's black.'
Evie was momentarily distracted by the thought of Max.
The only time she'd seen him sunbathe had been for an
hour the day before, his oiled body disturbing in its
half-naked glory. Compared to Simon, whose body was
angular and a little thin, Max was like an athlete: strong,
wide shoulders tapering down to a lean waist, and long,
muscular legs.
'Where'd you get that scar?' Rosie had asked, spotting a
jagged raised weal that ran from his left thigh down to just
above his ankle. Evie had wanted to ask but didn't dare.
'Mountaineering,' he said, rubbing the scar idly. 'It's too
dangerous for me these days, I wrecked my knee and can't
put that sort of pressure on it anymore. I'm supposed to
rest it a lot, although I still can't cope with the idea of
lounging around all day resting, even in the sun,' he joked.
He liked to sit on the verandah reading scripts and
drinking strong Spanish coffee, letting the sun tan him
naturally instead of baking himself beside a tan-obsessed
Rosie. Max preferred driving Evie around the coast to lying
in the sun.
Two days ago, they'd driven into the mountains to
Ronda, where the others had been the first day. They
hadn't dared stay out for dinner this time and had come
home by four, to find everyone else splayed out by the
pool soaking up the sun. Yesterday, they'd left separately
for a walk and had met at the bottom of the hill near the
bull ring, spending several hours meandering along the
port and having coffee, talking as if they'd only just
discovered how to and were desperate to practise.
'Your legs must be worn out,' Andrew had commented
when Evie arrived back at the villa, purposely alone, with
Max killing time until he could waltz in.
'I love to walk,' she'd said breezily. 'Did I tell you I'm
going in for the mini-marathon?' she lied.
Today, Max had left the villa early to meet a friend who
lived locally and still hadn't come back. Vida and Andrew
were having a siesta, or 'bonk-esta' as Rosie giggled when
the pair of them had sloped off to their room at half-two.
There was just Cara, Rosie and Evie by the pool,
luxuriating in the silence and the sun. And Rosie had no
intention of moving just when she'd got herself into the
most comfortable position possible, not even to fling the
sun lotion over to her aunt. 'Come and get it,' she said
sleepily.
'You lazy thing,' Cara muttered. She clambered off her
lounger and walked delicately on the hot terracotta tiles
towards Rosie.
'She's not actually burning,' Cara reported back to Evie,
standing over her niece's brown body which was just about
decently covered in a tiny pink gingham bikini.
'See, Mum, I'm fine,' muttered Rosie, eyes closed as she
lay in sybaritic bliss, adoring the sensation of the heat on
her flesh.
'Maybe I'll cool her down a little bit, though,' added
Cara wickedly. Scooping up water from the pool, she
sprinkled it all over Rosie's belly.
'Ouch, you bitch!' shrieked Rosie, leaping to her feet.
'I'll get you . . .' The pair of them danced around in their
bare feet, flicking icy water from the pool at each other,
laughing and squealing as the drops hit their heated skin.
Evie grinned and retreated back to her book. She felt
utterly, gloriously happy. Lounging by this azure pool, the
people she loved most in the world with her and clear
blue skies over her head, she couldn't ask for anything
more. Well . . . she could but you couldn't have everything
in life, could you? She wanted Max. He'd never be
hers, but for these few wonderful days she could imagine
he was.
When they got too hot, the three girls pulled on clothes
over their bikinis, slipped on espadrilles, and wandered
down the road to the supermarket where they bought
mineral water and some of the juicy watermelon Rosie
loved gouging the middle out of.
'God, it's hot!' said Cara, as they walked in happy silence
up the hill to the villa.
A white sports car flew past them, raising dust into the
air, and the driver honked his horn at the trio. They
laughed delightedly and Rosie made faces. In bikinis and
sarongs, Rosie wearing only the briefest of denim cutoffs
over her bikini, they must have looked like typical tourists,
Evie thought, wondering where the uptight woman of five
days ago had disappeared to.
'All we do is laugh.' Rosie said, happily tired from the
effort.
'Yeah,' Cara agreed, looping one arm around her sister's
and the other around Rosie's. 'Isn't it great?'
It was, Evie thought to herself! She felt very relaxed and
confident enough to be walking up a hill in broad daylight,
wearing nothing but a white shirt knotted around her
waist and one of Olivia's dusky pink sarongs covering her
aquamarine bikini.
Her hair was in a tousled pony-tail, her feet were dusty
from the road and her make-up consisted of a smear of
pinky white lip salve to protect her from the sun. Yet she
felt positively gorgeous and if Max roared up beside her
and asked her to hop in and go anywhere, she'd go. She
wouldn't need to fuss about her hair, her mascara or
whether she looked like a mess in a hastily tied scrap of
flowing chiffon. Was this the effect a holiday was supposed
to have? Or was this the effect Max had on her?
Evie smiled to herself as they ambled along, happy in her
dream world.
'Evie, let's go out to dinner tonight. You're tired after a day
at work. I want to take you somewhere romantic,' Max smiled
at her.
How did he know, she wondered lovingly, that she was
exhausted and couldn't cope with the idea of cooking? I le just
did. That was Max. He seemed to know her every thought,
her every feeling.
Who else would run a bubble-filled bath on that evening
when she had agonising period pains? Who else would pull
her on to the couch beside him and stroke her knotted up belly,
telling her he'd ordered in pizza, which he then fed to her as if
she was an invalid.
Who else would whisk the dry cleaning off when he left for
work in the morning, knowing she wanted to spend her lunch
hour at her desk instead of hurtling to the cleaner's in the
traffic? Who else would surprise her with breakfast in bed and
a perfect pink rose in a new vase on the anniversary of the day
they first met?
'I'd love to go out to dinner,' Evie replied, hugging her
husband, wondering at her good fortune in having found this
incredible man. 'After the day I've had, I didn't think I could
bear to cook anything other than beans on toast.'
Max buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of her
and making that little growling noise of pleasure she loved to
hear. "I know, love, and if I could cook, I would, but you know
how dreadful I am in the kitchen so it's easier to go out. Can't
have my pet slaving over a hot cooker all night. Unless you
want spaghetti again . . .'
It was strange, Evie thought as Cara let them in the
huge gates at Villa Lucia, her dreams were different
now: less fantasy, more real. Real but with Max in them.
Max, Max and more Max. The swarthy pirates and
Germanic princes who whisked her away to their yachts
had been replaced by a laughing face with probing,
knowing blue eyes, and a smile that could light your
heart up. All her heroes had turned into Max Stewart
and the yachts and luxury hotels had been replaced by
her cosy little home where she, Max and Rosie lived in
utter bliss. She didn't need to dream of fairy-talc waltzes
in glamorous evening gowns when she could be dreaming
of watching TV on her old couch, snuggled up
beside Max, his arms around her.
Vida was busy unloading the dishwasher and singing Ella
Fitzgerald in a husky voice when they wandered into the
kitchen with their purchases. Rosie began pouring them all
glasses of mineral water, adding ice and lemon the way
they never bothered to at home.
'Girls,' Vida cried, her face suffused with love, 'I had
totally forgotten. Evie, you'll murder me.'
She sank on to a kitchen chair and fanned herself with a
table mat picturing a crimson-clad flamenco dancer. They
were so pretty; she'd planned to buy some before she went
home. Vida had spotted ones like them in a little shop in
the port. 'What will I never forgive you for?' she asked.
'Your hen night, of course,' Vida replied, 'I'm so sorry
but it just slipped my mind. Tonight's the night, girls.' She
beamed at all three of them.
'Yahoo, a girls' night on the tiles!' Rosie said joyfully.
'Cool,' Cara agreed. 'I could go for that. We'll have to
leave Max and Dad here. They can go to that Milady's
Palace and eye up the cocktail waitresses.'
Tonight then?' Vida continued.
'Gosh, yes,' Evie answered in a small voice. 'My last
night of freedom. I think I should buy something new
for it.'
'Shopping!' said Rosie with glee. 'Even better. I'll get
dressed.'
Rifling through the rails of lavish clothes in a tiny boutique
in the port, Evie realised that she and Vida had totally
different methods of shopping. While Evie looked at the
price of everything before picking it out to admire in
greater detail, Vida scrutinised it, tried it on, saw if she
liked it or not and then glanced at the price.
Evie had already recoiled at the exorbitant cost of a
glittery little T-shirt and was now merely fingering the
clothes for something to do, on the grounds that she
wouldn't be able to afford to buy so much as a keyring in
this particular establishment. Cara and Rosie were
mooching around the bikini shop next door. The only
people in the boutique were Evie and Vida, who had the
obvious bloom of wealth about her. The sales assistant was
hovering hopefully, having spotted a potential gold card
customer straight away.
'Evie, just look,' breathed Vida, extracting a coppery
cocktail dress from the rack. With a low-cut back and a
cross-over front with built-in bra, it was that rare combination
of daringly sex and classy all at the same time. 'You've
got to try it on.'
Evie caught sight of the price tag swinging from a silken
cord and gasped.
'Are you mad?' she said. 'That's about a month's mortgage,
Vida. I haven't got the Sultan of Brunei's cheque
book with me, you know.'
'Oh, tish,' Vida said, thrusting the dress into Evie's
hands. 'Try it on. I want to buy you a hen night present.
This could be it. Go on.' She shooed Evie into the
changing room and went back to rifling through the rails.
Evie was still standing in the room staring aghast at the
beautiful copper dress When the tiny door opened and
Vida thrust another couple of hangers in. 'Try these too.'
They were just as prohibitively expensive as the first
dress. Evie shrugged. Vida was off her rocker, for sure.
There was no way she could afford the dresses herself and
equally no way she would let anyone else buy them for
her. But she pulled off her cream canvas trousers and her
vest top anyway. It wouldn't hurt to try them on, they
were so beautiful.
Once she'd slipped on the copper dress and saw how
beautifully it became her, she was lost. Gazing at her
transformed reflection in the mirror, Evie imagined how
Max would see her, how his eyes would widen at the sight
of her body so voluptuous outlined in the luxurious fabric,
how her breasts were enticingly exposed in the underwired
bodice. Visions of him gasping at her, holding her close,
kissing her neck and unzipping the dress filled her mind.
He couldn't but fall in love with her in this. The desire to
possess the dress fought hard with the knowledge that she
couldn't possibly afford it in a month of Sundays.
'Have you got it on?' Vida's voice inquired.
Evie stepped out of the changing room and slowly
walked in front of her.
oh;
Vida's intake of breath told her all she needed to know.
She did look beautiful in the dress. Max would love it.
'That colour is stunning, I just adore it,' Vida said, lost in
admiration. 'Why don't you ever wear things like that, Evie
honey? You look just great.'
'I don't know,' she said dazedly, admiring herself from
different angles in a big mirror. 'I never think of wearing
colours like this and I can't afford clothes that cost this
much.'
'Nonsense,' Vida said briskly. 'I'll buy it. You've got to
have it.'
The assistant, scenting a sale, materialised beside them
with high shoes and a costume jewellery pendant that hung tantalisingly in Evie's creamy cleavage like an arrow
pointing the way for interested parties.
'No jewellery,' Vida said, arms folded as she eyed the
combination critically. 'It's better to keep it simple. Now,'
she added, 'try the others.'
The cream linen dress, so icily chic on the hanger, looked
like an old flour sack on Evie and she didn't even bother
stepping out of the changing room to show Vida. But the
off-the-shoulder violet knit two-piece that clung to her in
silken folds and turned her hazel eyes a hypnotic green was
stunning.
'It's lovely,' she said, almost weeping at the thought of
how much she'd love to buy it. 'But I can't let you buy
them both, Vida, it wouldn't be right.'
In the end, Vida insisted so much and went on and on
about how Evie was the daughter she'd never had, that she
allowed her stepmother to pay for the two outfits. Cara
and Rosie were waiting outside, eating ice creams and
watching the world go by when Vida emerged, flushed
with pleasure at having finally managed to spoil Evie. She,
on the other hand, was flushed with guilt at the thought of
how much Vida had spent.
'My second husband,' Vida had whispered as the assistant
reverently wrapped the copper and violet garments in
tissue paper, 'did not turn out to be a very nice man. Not
like Max's dear father, Carlos,' she said sadly. 'But Dan
Andersen was rich. Very rich,' she emphasised. 'It's nice to
have a daughter to spend it on ... well, a stepdaughter,'
she added quickly.
'What did you buy?' Rosie asked, poking around the
glossy carrier bag like a dog snuffling for food in the
grocery shopping.
'Lovely things,' Vida replied, tucking her arm through
Rosie's. 'Now what can we get for you, my girl?'
Dinner and drinks in a lively club in the port: that was
Vida's plan for Evie's hen night.
'I've told the boys they'll have to do without us for the
evening,' she said, arriving in Evie's room at half-seven that
evening to find Evie dressed in her copper dress.
'Is Max back?' she asked anxiously, slipping her feet into
high black sandals. She wanted to see him, tell him that
the hen night hadn't been her idea, that she didn't even
want to think for one moment about her wedding.
'He got back twenty minutes ago but he and your
father have gone out on their boys' night. Lord knows
where they'll end up. Some bordello!' Vida smiled
affectionately, knowing full well that her beloved and
besotted husband was as likely to end up in a bordello as
she was.
I missed him, thought Evie, deflated. She'd never had
the chance to explain and now he hadn't even seen her in
her lovely new dress. She threw her mascara back into the
top drawer. What was the point of bothering now?
Dinner was a lively, wine-sodden affair that she'd have
loved if the circumstances were different. Cara, Rosie and
Vida were all in fantastic form, determined that Evie
should enjoy herself. Making a huge effort, she laughed at
everyone's jokes and pretended she was having the time of
her life. Inside, her heart was breaking.
Watching the others' faces recede in a blur around her,
she thought that this was the end of her idyll. Tonight was
the final proof that in just five weeks she was getting
married. To Simon. Dear sweet Simon who'd once felt like
the answer to all her prayers and now felt like a millstone
around her neck, dragging her down to the bottom of the
pond with him when she wanted to be swimming lazily on
the surface with Max.
She twisted the engagement ring on her hand idly. It was
looser now because she'd lost weight, despite the meals
out every evening. Her appetite was non-existent. On her
plate, some roasted peppers congealed in their spicy olive
oil dressing, barely touched. Normally, she'd have wolfed
them down. She loved roasted peppers.
Tell me about the honeymoon,' Vida said cosily,
delighted to be so close to Evie after all this time.
She smiled bravely. The last thing she wanted to talk
about was her honeymoon, two solid weeks of being with
Max in Greece . . . She breathed in sharply. Max. She'd
automatically thought of him instead of Simon. Talk about
a Freudian slip! She didn't want to be stuck with Simon so
her mind had instantly and unconsciously replaced him
with Max. This was ridiculous.
'Greece,' she sighed, trying and failing to put some
animation into her voice. 'I've always wanted to go there.'
But not now, she thought silently.
'Greece is so beautiful,' Vida said mistily. 'I remember
walking miles to see the Oracle at Delphi after this party.
We were all suffering from far too many cocktails and our
car had broken down, so we walked, in evening dress, to
the temple. We were insane to do it.'
Vida had many wonderful qualities, Evie reflected, and
thank God one of them was the ability to talk in a
stream of fascinating reminiscences about her life. Utterly
entertaining, she could keep a crowd amused for hours
on end. Cara and Rosie, engaged in a secret plan to give
Rosie a lot more wine than her mother would normally
allow, leaned forward over the remains of their dinner
and listened.
Grateful that the spotlight was off her, Evie sat back and
ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass. Her eyes
roamed the room listlessly, as if she hoped Max would
appear and take her away from all this talk of weddings
and honeymoons.
A tanned blond man, sitting alone at the bar eating
olives and knocking back red wine from a glass the size of
a goldfish bowl, was staring at her admiringly. When she
noticed him, he gave her a frankly appreciative look and,
picking up his glass, raised it in her direction.
It was amazing the effect the right clothes could have,
Evie thought ironically, giving him a polite smile back. She
felt like a duchess in this dress and yet the man she most
wanted to admire it, hadn't seen it and probably never
would.
By dessert, Vida and a now tipsy Rosie were discussing
men as if they were two seventeen year olds instead of one,
and Cara, much tipsier, was telling Evie just what a lovely
man Max Stewart was.
'He's so kind to me,' she confided, big dark eyes shining
with a mixture of booze and affection. 'Asked me all about
my childhood and about how you looked after me. He
wanted to know about the whole family, really . . . It's so
nice to meet a man who's interested in you as a person and
not just as a pair of tits,' she said, a certain gloom entering
her voice. Ewan hadn't thought she was just a babe with
big boobs, Cara knew that. He'd loved her for the sort of
person she was, but he hadn't been able to understand
exactly what sort of person that was. All mixed up, she
realised sadly. Totally screwed up, incapable of having a
relationship thanks to that bastard Owen Theal who'd
shattered her confidence.
And Ewan had ended up giving her back that confidence
but she'd been too blind to realise . . .
No, she wasn't thinking about him. She was over Ewan.
Finished, finito, ended. She needed another man to take
her mind off things. A man like Max would do it.
'Do
you think Max likes me?' Cara asked her sister
earnestly. 'I think he does but maybe I'm wrong. He's so
hunky, isn't he? Gorgeous body.'
'Yes, he's gorgeous,' Evie replied woodenly. What had
she been thinking of? Max would be so good for her sister,
he'd give her love, affection and the stability Cara needed
so desperately. Evie had a fiance, a man she was going to
marry. Cara needed somebody. Just then, a picture of
lanky, tousle-headed Ewan sprang to her mind.
'What about Ewan?' she asked suddenly.
Cara's eyes filled with tears.
'It's over,' she sniffed, fumbling around in her pocket for
a tissue.
Evie put a comforting arm around her sister. 'You poor
thing. Why didn't you tell me?'
'Nothing to tell,' Cara gulped. 'He's a pig, dumped me,
ended it. Well, I can tell you,' her voice became flinty, 'I'm
over him and I'm going to have one hell of a good time
now that I'm here. Vida,' she said, interrupting a whispered
conversation between her step-mother and Rosie,
'where are we going next? I want to party!'

The El Dorado nightclub was like a giant, purple velvet
lined cavern with smaller alcoves hollowed out from the
walls like intimate rooms surrounding the dance floor area.
A tail-coated waiter, bribed by Vida, led them to a quiet
nook at the back of the club where voluminous banquettes
were curved like fleshy Dali sculptures around glass tables
and they could watch the dance floor without being
deafened by the music. The dance floor was almost empty,
apart from a few youthful blondes shimmying in white
clothes that gleamed luminously in the disco lights.
As befitted a club where you had to pay a fortune just to
get in, the clientele was of every age imaginable, from the
very young to the very old. All of them appeared to be
very rich. The ice buckets on the tables contained bottles
of champagne and the handbags that lay close to their
owners on the plump banquettes were all Fendi and Prada.
'This is some place,' Rosie whispered in awe, looking
around.
'I'm sure it's far too sedate for you, girls,' Vida replied,
waving a braceleted hand at a waiter, 'but I'm too old for
most of the other nightclubs and this one was recommended
as being suitable for old dears like me.'
'You're not an old dear,' said Rosie, horrified.
'Look at the price of the drink!' cried Evie, just as
horrified as she browsed through the leather-covered
wine list.
'Double tish,' said Vida, immediately ordering two bottles
of champagne. 'It's not every day my stepdaughter gets
married.'
Even Evie needed a drink after that.
Vida proved to be keen on dancing, especially when the
DJ played a rock n' roll medley which saw half the club
abandon their cigars to get up and dance. Rosie and Cara bopped energetically, but Evie, despite the appreciative
glances her copper dress drew, soon sank back down into
their corner and sipped her champagne meditatively.
She didn't feel like dancing or celebrating. She felt as if
she was at a wake, where an old woman with white hair
would start keening any minute. She didn't notice the man
approaching her until he was in front of her, asking in
heavily accented English if he could sit down.
Evie shrugged in a 'do what you like' way. She didn't
care who sat where. She didn't care about anything any
more.

'You don't dance with your friends?' he asked.
Evie realised it was the blond man from the restaurant, the one who'd raised his glass to her. He was forty
something, handsome from a distance. But up close his
face was a road-map of red veins from too much alcohol or
too much fresh air or both.
'You want more champagne?' he asked, eyes roaming
over her body lasciviously.
Aware that any positive response might be interpreted
as a come-on, Evie shook her head and slid back in her seat
away from him, hoping Vida or the girls would come back
and rescue her.
She didn't want to be rude but she wanted to get rid of
this guy. Mr Red Vein moved along the seat after her, like a
giant spider after a fly.
'You are too beautiful to be alone,' he crooned.
Evie smiled nervously, then stopped smiling because that
would definitely be a come-on.
He stretched out a tanned hand and put it on her knee.
OmiGod, Evie thought with fear, this could not be
happening to her. Things like this didn't happen to her.
Encounters with strange men in nightclubs happened to
glamorous women with exotic lives, not to boring little
mice like herself. Why had she ever wanted interesting
things to happen to her? She'd never wish for that again.
She'd never wear this bloody dress again either. The
crossover bit at the front was just asking for trouble.
'I saw you alone and thought you must be lonely,' he
said, fingers caressing.
'Well, I'm not,' Evie said hotly, wrenching her knee away
from him.
He laughed and gave her a scorching look that said, I like
women playing hard to get.
'You British women are so sexy, so cool,' he murmured,
eyeing her up as if trying to figure out how to unzip her
dress. 'I bet you're not so cool in bed, huh?'
Evie felt repulsed. How dare he speak to her like that?
He was disgusting, she didn't want him anywhere near her.
His hand reached out again but she was too quick for him.
She slapped his face as hard as she could and shrieked:
I'm Irish, I'm not at all cool and I'm not interested. No, no
no! What part of "no" don't you understand!' She leaped
to her feet, banging her shin painfully on the edge of the
glass table in the process.
Whirling around, she walked straight into a giant of a
man who'd suddenly appeared at the entrance to their
nook, blocking off the light from the dance floor. Strong,
comforting arms closed around her and the cologne that
rose from the chest she was pressed against definitely
belonged to Max.
'Evie, are you OK?' he asked anxiously, holding her by
the shoulders and staring into her flushed, upset face.
"I am now,' she said, weak with relief
She could feel Max's hands tighten convulsively on her
shoulders as he stared furiously over her head at Mr Red
Vein.
'So sorry,' muttered the other man, taking one look at
Max's athletic frame and getting the hell out of there.
Evie leaned against Max's chest and laughed, relief
flooding through her body. 'I thought he was going to
pounce on me.'
'So did I,' Max said grimly. 'I'll kill Mother for leaving
you on your own. She should have known you're fair game
for every gigolo this side of Sotogrande.'
'I am not!' Evie said in outrage, pulling away and looking
up at him crossly.
'Sorry.' He pulled her back into the circle of his arms
and kissed the top of her head. 'I'm not rational where
you're concerned, Evie. I want to protect you from everything
and I should kill that bastard . . .'
'Shush,' she said softly, putting a finger against his
mouth to silence him. 'Dance with me instead. I'd prefer a
dance than spending the night trying to bail you out from
the Puerto Banus jail.'
His eyes dark with longing as he looked at her, Max
kissed her finger sensuously. Evie felt her belly quiver with
desire, while her heart beat a fierce tattoo in her chest.
His head came down and he kissed her: a kiss so sweet
and tender she wanted to drown in it forever. His mouth
tasted of peppermints and his lips were soft as they moved
against hers. Then he broke away and led her by the hand
on to the dance floor, to a quiet corner where there were
only a few other couples.
The music was still fast and Evie could see Cara's head
over the crowd, swinging rapidly to the beat, long black
curls flying. The people beside them were sweaty from
their exertions but Max had no intention of jiving. They
both knew they could dance beautifully together: they'd
stunned the crowd at Vida and Andrew's wedding with
their Fred and Ginger expertise. But Max wanted to hold
her close this time, not trip the light fantastic for the
benefit of the clubbers in El Dorado.
Smiling, Evie put her arms around his neck. He wrapped
his around her waist, pulling her in deliberately close so
that they were moulded together.
She could feel her body crushed against his, feel the heat
of him as they swayed slowly, creating their own tempo
instead of jerking to the frantic beat.
As if he'd seen them and knew they wanted to slow
dance, the DJ let the frantic rock 'n' roll music fade, while
gently turning up something slow and melodic. Al Green's
'Let's Stay Together' rippled around the nightclub and
before long everybody else was dancing at their speed. Evie
let the music flow over her, exquisitely happy in Max's
arms. He'd have a permanent crick in his neck if they were
married, she thought fondly, giving in to the impulse to
stroke the sleek, dark head that was bent low next to hers.
'You look beautiful in that dress,' he murmured into the
soft, dark cloud of her hair.
'I wore it for you,' she said simply. 'I could have cried
when I heard you'd gone out this evening without my
talking to you. I wanted you to see me looking like this just
once.'
'You always look beautiful to me,' he said, 'even when
you've just got up and are mooching around the kitchen in
your dressing gown, rubbing sleep from your eyes.'
Evie laughed. 'That was yesterday, I bet. I was so thirsty
I had to go downstairs before my shower. I didn't think
anyone saw me.'
'You can't hide from me,' he said, fingers kneading the
small of her back. 'I watch out for you, I always want to be
seeing you.' His voice grew huskier. "I want to see you in
the morning after a night spent with me, so I can rub the
sleep from your eyes and wake you up slowly.' They'd
stopped dancing now and were standing very still, holding
each other. Evie was also holding her breath, afraid to
move in case she broke the spell.
"I want you, Evie,' Max said suddenly. 'I want to take you
home with me now and never let you go. You've no idea
how much I want to do that.'
His eyes were liquid with desire, matching Evie's. She
lost herself in those eyes, knowing that she wanted him
just as much as he wanted her. There was no pretence
between them.
'I want you too, Max,' she breathed softly.
'Let's go,' he said roughly.
Rosie was delighted to see Max and threw her arms
around him when he and Evie returned to the table.
'When did you get here?' she asked, slim hips swaying to
the music.
'We've been dancing,' Vida added, fanning herself with
her hand. 'Did you bring Andrew?'
Max shook his head. 'He's taking advantage of your
night out to go to bed early. So I thought I'd drop in to say
hello and it's just as well I did. Evie feels ill. Something she
ate.'
Obediently, Evie tried to look sick, squinting as if she
was in pain. Her stomach was certainly reacting wildly but
that was butterflies fluttering around at the thought of
what was actually happening.
'Poor thing,' Cara said with a hiccup.
Rosie hugged her mother sympathetically.
'I'll go with you,' Vida offered.
'No,' Max said quickly. 'You should stay with Rosie and
Cara. Look after them,' he added, thrusting a handful of
notes into his mother's hand. This is their night out too.
Evie specifically wants them to enjoy themselves,' he
whispered.
She did her best to walk away as if she was feeling terribly
sick, but as soon as she and Max were outside the club, she
grabbed his hand in delight. They ran to the car, like a
couple of kids who'd escaped from some bossy relative,
laughing and giggling at having outwitted everyone.
Max drove back to the villa with one hand on the wheel
and one hand on Evie's thigh, as if he couldn't bear to let
her go even for one moment. Beside him, she shivered
with excitement, watching everything go by in a kind of
blur.
As silently as they could, they crept in the front door,
hoping Andrew would be asleep. The villa was in silence,
only the light snores coming from her father's and Vida's
room testimony that there was anyone at home.
'Your room,' Evie whispered, knowing that everyone
would poke their head round her door later to see if she
was asleep. 'I'll make my bed look slept in.'
Trying not to wonder where she'd suddenly developed
this newfound skill at subterfuge, she crumpled her bed
and arranged two pillows under the covers into a long
shape so that anyone sticking their head in later would
think she was in it. Then, she ran into the bathroom and
cleaned her teeth before tiptoeing out on to the landing.
Outside Max's room, she paused, shocked for a
moment at what she was about to do. She was going to
bed with Max, she was betraying Simon. Was she some
sort of slut? If somebody had told her she was capable of
behaving like this, she wouldn't have believed them. This
was not common or garden Evie Fraser behaviour, not in
a million years. Talk about being caught on the horns of
a dilemma.
She was still deliberating in desperation when the door
opened silently and Max stood there, looking at her as if he
knew what was running through her mind. He'd taken off
his jacket and was wearing that white cotton shirt that
made his skin look wonderfully bronzed by comparison.
His face was in shadow but his eyes blazed out of the
darkness, burning intensely with passion. Passion for her.
His dark hair was unruly and he ran one hand through it
impatiently, sleeking it back.
With a shiver of excitement, Evie knew that she longed
to feel those hands touching her, wanted those lips burning
against hers. She wanted Max. There was nothing else in
the universe except her and him.
Nothing she could do to stop herself. It was as inevitable
as the tide that lapped against the beach every day. Max
and Evie. Evie and Max. She stepped into the room and
gently shut the door behind her.
Max took her face in his hands and stared at her as if he
was drinking in every hollow and bone of her face. He
started kissing her forehead, moving to the arch of her
eyebrows then her eyelids, her cheeks, her snub nose and
her chin, before claiming her mouth, his lips at first gentle
on hers, then hard against Evie's plump lusciousness.
She clung to him, standing on her tiptoes, letting her
hands roam over him joyously. When she thought she'd die
from the pleasure of kissing, Max pulled her to the bed. sat
down on it and stood her in front of him, admiring her
beautiful dress.
'It's wonderful,' he growled, 'but it's got to come off.' His big hands traced the curve of her breasts through
the dress, cupping them, then he slid his fingers under the
crossover fabric to touch bare skin. Evie gasped as he
caressed her. He ran his hands over her waist, marvelling at
her hourglass shape, then roamed down to fondle the
curve of her buttocks through the thin copper material.
Her face was flushed, her hair tumbled in curls around
her shoulders, her mouth open as she gasped with pleasure.
Evie thought she'd never felt such delicious sensations
in her life before.
She reached back and her fingers found the zip. Slowly,
she unzipped the dress and tantalisingly slid it down,
exposing first the line of her sun-kissed shoulders, then the
full curve of her breasts.
'You're beautiful, Evie,' Max said slowly. He didn't make
a move to touch her, just sat like some Eastern potentate
watching, drinking her in because he knew he'd be able to touch her everywhere when he chose. His watching
excited her hopelessly. Breathing heavily, Evie continued
her erotic striptease, sliding the dress over her hips to
reveal tiny white bikini pants and nothing else. She was
glad she'd shaved her legs that evening. Still, Max just
stared at her, his pupils black with desire.
It was only when the dress fell to the ground like shed
skin that he reached out and pulled her to him, arms and
mouth exploring her body hungrily.
Evie heard moaning as Max's mouth fastened exquisitely
on her nipple and then realised the person moaning
was herself. She couldn't help it. The feelings his darting
tongue unleashed in her couldn't be suppressed. She forgot
all about keeping quiet in case they woke her father up.
'My darling,' Max said thickly, kissing her hungrily, 'I've
wanted you for so long. You're so beautiful.'
Then her hands were on him, unbuttoning the soft
cotton shirt, eager fingers exploring the hard, muscled
body beneath it. As his hands roamed over her back,
stroking and caressing, her hands touched his chest lovingly,
slipping down to open the button on his chinos.
He groaned as they lay back on the bed, Evie quivering
with desire as Max's probing hands slid her white cotton
panties off her body. She arched against him as he touched
her, trying not to make too much noise but helpless with
excitement. When he was naked too, Evie didn't feel any
of the prudery which overcame her with Simon. With
Max, she wanted to have every light in the place burning
brightly so she could experience every thrilling second of
their lovemaking in full, well-lit colour. She shuddered
when he pushed himself inside her, gentle yet insistent.
'Evie,' he said, his breath ragged. Are you all right, my
darling?' In response her mouth caught his, kissing him
deeply to let him know that she was as excited as he. She
clung to him, sweat mingling as they moved as one. Every
muscle in her body quivered beneath Max, ever)' nerve
ending burned with pleasure.
She wanted to be naked and wrapped around him for
the rest of her life, skin on satiny skin, hip bones locked together . . . and then she felt the sweetness wash over her
as she came, her orgasm flooding through her body like a
great tidal wave of icy water: hitting her with an explosive
force, then ebbing gently as it rippled through her body.
Fiercely excited by Evie's little cry of pleasure, Max
came with her, groaning out her name in ecstasy.
'Evie!'
She didn't know which was more exhilarating: her own
orgasm or the sheer pleasure of seeing how much she
excited Max, seeing the effect she had on this incredible
man.
She could feel his body spasm in bliss, every muscle hard
against her as he came triumphantly, wildly.
They held each other tightly as they came back to earth,
sated and shaking, bodies slick with moisture, breathing
fast.
'My darling, that was incredible,' murmured Max, nuzzling
Evie's ear.
She purred back at him, feeling like a giant cat lying in the
tropical sun after months of Arctic winter. They shifted in
the bed, Max curling his body around Evie's spoon-fashion,
as if he couldn't bear even an inch to separate them.
Supporting his head with his left hand, he caressed her
with his right, no longer exploring every inch of her flesh,
merely stroking her lovingly. She wriggled until she was
lying on her back, legs tangled up with his and looking up
at his face. Max's fingers gently fondled every rib, splaying
out to touch the full curve of her breast, touching her
almost in wonder.
His face was tender as he watched her but the blue eyes
were unreadable in the dark.
Suddenly, Evie wanted to ask the question all men were
supposed to hate: What are you thinking? Rosie had
gleaned this nugget of information from a magazine and
had proceeded to read it out to her mother and Cara only
the day before as they sat by the pool. It was women's
favourite question and men's most hated one. But gazing
up at Max, abruptly wrenched from feelings of joy to the
sheer horror of making such a mistake, she desperately
wanted to ask it.
What if their lovemaking hadn't been the most glorious,
earth-shattering experience for him? What if she'd been
nothing more than a quick lay, an available woman, and he
was wondering how the hell to get her out of his bed so he
could roll over and go back to sleep? Was that what he was
thinking and if it was . . .
Max's fingers curled around hers and he brought her
hand to his mouth, kissing it softly.
'You're wearing your worried face,' he said. Are you
sorry now? Are you figuring out how to escape out of here
as painlessly as possible? I certainly hope not.'
Laughter bubbled out of Evie as relief flooded through
her. 'I was afraid that's what you were thinking,' she
admitted. 'You weren't, were you?'
'You're a terrible woman for doubting me, aren't you?'
he chuckled. 'How am I ever going to convince you I'm
crazy about you? That I love you?'
His eyes weren't unreadable now; he was earnest, eager,
hoping for a response. Evie gave it to him.
'I love you too, Max,' she said simply.
She reached up to kiss him, letting her tongue slip into
his mouth, letting him see the force of her passion. God,
he loved her! And she loved him, so very much. It was like
a dream or a miracle. She wanted to sing from the rooftops
with joy.
His hands were roaming over her body again, questing
and passionate. Evie felt herself quiver as she responded to
the erotic thrust of his tongue.
She could barely imagine that their kiss could be deeper,
sweeter than before, but it was. As if those words of love
had flicked a magic switch inside both of them, there was
no holding back now.
'I love you, I love you, I love you,' she whispered
joyously. Then, pushing him down and wriggling on top of
him, she playfully pinned his arms to the bed and lowered
her mouth to his. 'It's my turn to show you how much.'
They were satiated, entwined in each other's arms, when
they heard the giggling, whispering and banging into
furniture that heralded the return of the nightclubbers.
'It's half-three,' said Evie, scandalised at the lateness of
the hour.
Max tickled her earlobe with his tongue. 'Oh, yeah?
You're one to talk about staying up late, Miss Sexpot.'
'You're the one who's been up,' she retorted, her body
exhausted after two frantic couplings in which she'd been
stunned by how turned on he was. Simon had never been
able for more than one session at a time. Max tickled her and
she slapped his hands away, trying to muffle her giggles.
'Shush, they'll hear us.'
The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs, outside
Evie's room.
The pair of them lay silently and listened.
'She's asleep,' they heard Cara say.
After a flurry of goodnight kisses, doors shut noisily and
the house was silent.
Evie curled herself back into the curve of Max's body,
not wanting to leave and yet wondering if she should.
His strong arm stilled her. 'You're not going anywhere,'
he said. 'I'm not letting you out of my sight.'
Feeling more comfortable in her nakedness than she ever
had in her entire life, Evie wriggled up against his warm
body and let herself drift off into sleep.
As if she wanted to remind herself where she really was,
she found she woke up every hour to touch Max, just to
make sure he was there and that she wasn't dreaming.
Each time she woke up, he seemed to wake with her,
stroking her softly and murmuring: 'Go back to sleep.'
Finally, she slipped into a deep slumber and woke to the
sound of next door's lawnmower.
'Jesus!' She sat up abruptly, realised she was stark naked
and, for one terrified moment, wondered where she was.
Then she felt Max's arm lazily moving over her thigh and
she remembered. Evie's face curved into a giant smile until
she glanced at her watch.
Half-eight! Vida would be up soon. She always woke
early and would undoubtedly peek into Evie's room to see
how she was. A couple of pillows squashed under the
covers might pass muster at half-three in the morning
when everyone had a bottle of wine inside them, but it
wouldn't fool the sharp-eyed Vida in the cool light of
morning.
'Max.' hissed Evie, trying to be quiet but feeling nervous.
His response was to drag her down into the bed, pull her
under him and kiss her in such an indolently sensual way
that she forgot all about Vida, the pillows and why she was
nervous about anyone discovering she'd just spent the
night with Max.
By nine, the nerves were back.
Max was lying in such post-coital stillness that she
thought he'd dropped off She wanted to sneak back into
her own room but couldn't bear just to leave him, not
without talking to him anyway.
Evie stared up at the ceiling and fretted. What could she
say to everyone? She was bursting with the news that she
and Max were in love but she could hardly tell Vida, her
father and the girls that she wasn't going to marry Simon.
Not without telling him first. That would be unfair and
cowardly. But she didn't know how she was going to tell
Simon. How did you start a conversation like that?
'What are you going to say to them?' asked Max.
Evie, who'd been convinced he was dozing, jumped in
shock. 'I'm sorry,' she said guiltily. 'We shouldn't have to
tell anyone anything - except the truth. It's just Simon, I
have to tell him first . . .'
She paused. After all, Max hadn't actually said he
wanted her not to marry Simon. But he must mean that,
surely?
'I love you, Evie, I told you that and I meant it,' he said,
interrupting her nightmarish thoughts. 'But I know you
have to do what you have to do. Just don't take forever, please. I want you with me and I don't want to hide it. He
grinned, stroking the delicate skin of her collarbone. 'I'd
never make a spy, I'm no good at lying.'
She smiled at him. 'Neither am I.'
Something banged against the door and Evie gasped,
shooting out of the bed and into the bathroom like a
rocket. Inside, she stuffed a bit of towel into her mouth to
stop herself from giggling with a combination of nerves
and lust.
She quivered when the door was wrenched open a
moment later by a grinning Max.
'My mother tripped over the laundry basket going
downstairs in the search for mineral water,' he said. She's
dying of a hangover and even if you hung a sign over your
bed saying "pillows - not a person. Owner bonking elsewhere",
I doubt if she'd notice.'
They clutched each other, laughing as quietly as they
could. Finally, Max kissed Evie's bare shoulder reluctantly.
'Get out of here,' he said, 'before I have to ravish you
again.'
'I don't know if I could manage another time,' she said
ruefully, her body aching in the cold light of day.
'You and me both.' He smiled. 'I'm afraid I'm no toyboy,
Ms Fraser.'
'No?' She pouted. 'Why else do you think I came in
here?'
With her copper dress wrapped in one towel and herself
enveloped in another, so she could say she'd been having a
shower if anyone spotted her, Evie slipped across the
landing to her own bedroom.
She shut the door and raced into the bathroom to see if she looked different. Surely her eyes were shining and her
skin glowing with love? The sight that greeted her made
Evie grimace ruefully. Her hair looked like a bird's nest,
her eyes were ringed with smudged mascara like a ring
tailed lemur's and her face was deathly pale from no sleep.
But she hugged herself gleefully. Max loved her.

Vida and Cara, both sporting the lemur look around the
eyes, were sitting at the kitchen table looking like death
microwaved up when Evie ventured downstairs.
'How are you?' she asked brightly, then remembering
she was supposed to have been sick the night before,
added: 'I'm feeling much better now.'
'Good for you,' groaned Cara, resting her head on her
hands. 'We're dying. Hand us out the orange juice.'
'There's none left.'
"I had the last of it,' confessed Vida, who looked no
better than Cara. 'I'm never going on a hen night again.'
'Look at the state of the pair of you,' Andrew said,
arriving at the front door with Rosie, who looked the
picture of health and was carrying a container of orange
juice. He plonked the groceries on the table. 'You're a right
couple of boozers. If you're not careful, I'm sending you pair into a clinic to dry out when we get home.'
'Morning,' said Rosie cheerily.
Cara and Vida both winced at the loudness of her voice.
'Have mercy on the afflicted,' Vida said, 'or I'll make
you suffer next time you have a pain in your head. And
there's nothing wrong with the odd night out, Andrew.'
'Do you think you could both manage another night
out?' Max said, coming down the stairs.
'I'll be fine when I've had my first coffee,' Vida
remarked, ruffling her husband's hair before going over to
the coffee maker.
Max hugged his mother. 'Good, because I met some pals
in the port yesterday and they're having a party tonight.
We're all invited.'
Evie glared at him from narrowed eyes. Why hadn't he
mentioned this to her? They'd had at least eight solid
hours of constant companionship and at no point had he
alluded to a party given by friends of his. Was she suitable
for bonking his brains out but not for hearing intimate
little details of his life?
'Really?' she said crossly. 'Where's the party and who are
the friends?'
Max took over spooning coffee into the filter as Vida
looked too worn out to do it. 'Franz Lieber, a German
director I worked with on a mini-series about Strauss. He
and his wife have just bought a ranch down the road from
here and it seems a lorryload of actors and crew decamped
from his latest production the other day for the grand
opening.'
Anyone famous?' asked Rosie excitedly.
'Not really,' Max said, still fiddling with the coffee
machine. 'Franz mainly pals around with the technical
people on a production, although he says Ted Livingstone
and Mia Koen are there.'
'Oh,' said Rosie, not interested in Ted, an American
character actor, and not knowing who Mia Koen was.
The name 'Mia' flickered like a lightbulb above Evie's
head, however. 'Who's she?' she asked, recognising the
name but not remembering from where.
Max turned around but didn't meet her eyes. 'An
actress,' he said casually. Too casually.
'Isn't that the girl who was crazy about you?' Vida inquired with a mischievous grin on her lovely face. 'The
one from Atlanta, Queen of the Mini-Series?'
F.vie felt a dart of sheer jealousy rip through her
viciously. Mia . . . she knew she'd heard the name before.
When she and Max had been surprised having lunch and
she'd dreamed up a phantom, hugely pregnant wife for
him, he'd automatically named her Mia. Not the sort of
thing you would do on the spur of the moment unless the
name meant something to you.
'We're all invited, are we?' she asked in an arch voice.
'Are you sure they don't want you on your own?'
Max shook his head and looked at her, amazement on
his face at her caustic tone.
'We can't go,' Rosie said, patting Cara on the shoulder.
'It's our night to go out on our own. We've found just the
right place to go, haven't we, Cara?'
She nodded. 'And I'm drinking water all night, I promise.'
'I hope you are too, Rosie,' said Evie, more sharply than
shed intended.
She spent the morning longing to get a quiet word alone
with Max, determined to ask him about Mia. But every
time it seemed as if she had him to herself) someone
wandered in from the pool looking for mineral water or
meandered down the stairs with the sun cream they'd gone
up to find. Open-plan houses were a pain in the rear end,
Evie thought angrily. To add to her temper, it seemed as if Max didn't want a moment alone with her. He didn't look
at all perturbed by all the interruptions.
Finally, bristling with indignation, Evie grabbed her
book, her sun cream and her bikini, and flung herself into
the lounger beside Rosie, who was determined to spend
their last full day in Spain working on her tan.
When Vida called out from the verandah that they were
driving down to the port for lunch, Evie padded barefoot
into the villa, sleepy from the heat and sorry for being such
a cow to Max. But he'd gone.
'Off to see his director friend,' Vida explained.
And Mia. Evie's heart hardened.
'Tell me about this Mia person,' she inquired idly. 'Do
you think there's a chance she and Max might get back
together?' Evie did her best to hide the fact that even saying it was like having heart surgery without an anaesthetic.
'I never met her but her reputation precedes her,' Vida
answered. 'Evidently, she's beautiful and very demanding, a
real drama queen from Georgia, She's never made it in the
movies but she's huge in the sort of shows Max's company
makes. He loves working with her because her name can
make a show profitable. I'm not sure but I think they had a
thing going together on location once.'
Evie gulped.
'She was married at the time to this Country and
Western singer, which is why Max never told me what
exactly happened. I think he was afraid I'd be horrified.'
Vida shrugged. 'They tell me that happens all the time in show business DCOL they say - Doesn't Count On Location.
I think I read that Mia's divorced now so maybe she's
back for a re-match with Max.'
Evie was shocked to her fillings. Max had had an
on-location fling with this woman who was married to
someone else at the time! So, he had a history of running
off with other men's girlfriends and not even staying
around long enough to see what happened. How dare he
try it on with her? How stupid she was for letting it
happen.
Had stupid Mia believed Max's litany of lies and
thought he'd stay with her if she dumped her husband?
Like I believed him, Evie thought bitterly. Like she always
believed men. She'd believed Tony and look where that
got her.
Feigning exhaustion, she said she'd skip lunch and lay
down on her bed while everyone else hopped eagerly into
the car for a trip down the port to a cute seafood
restaurant Andrew had discovered.
Tears rolled down her cheeks as she lay on the bed,
staring blindly at the pretty little balcony outside, where
she and Max had shared breakfast what felt like a thousand
years ago.
At least Simon would never give her reason to doubt
him. Dependable from his sandy hair down to his
sensible lace-up shoes, he was the sort of man you could
rely on never to give you a sleepless night. He didn't
light fires within her either, but he loved her and she
could trust him. How could she have betrayed him for a
rake of a man who went around collecting women like
Apache Indians collected scalps in old black and white
movies?
And why did she always fall for the sort of man who
didn't know how to be faithful, who thought monogamy
was a great idea but not for him?
Evie's tear-filled eyes didn't see the cloudless blue sky
through the open windows. Instead, she saw herself with
baby Rosie in her arms, staring into her husband's grave
and wondering why the tears wouldn't come. Of all the
people standing there beside her, only Olivia knew the whole story. As Tony's mother wailed and screamed for
her dead son, clutching her rosary beads in genuine
anguish, Evie felt nothing but rage that he had left her
with a six-month-old baby to bring up on her own. Rage
at Tony, and rage at herself for having been conned by a
man she'd thought she knew. No wonder she'd steered
clear of the male of the species for so many years,
preferring life as a single parent to the two-faced world of
dating. Simon had been the first man she'd Set close to
her. Max had been the second.
Well, one out of two wasn't bad.
She swung her legs out of bed and sat down on the
balcony, her face bleak as she stared out at the sea and the
yachts dotting the shimmering blue horizon.
More than anything else in the world, she wanted Max
Stewart. She loved him with all her heart but he wasn't
what he pretended to be. She wasn't sure if he'd lied to
her or not, but he hadn't told her the truth, that was for
sure. And the truth was so important to her. A wave of
guilt hit her as she remembered that she hadn't told
Simon the truth.
Well, she would. From now on, she'd be the most
faithful, truthful wife ever and he'd never regret marrying
her. She'd make his life wonderful, be the perfect spouse,
go into Wife of the Year contests, anything to make things
the way they had been before.
The wedding was back on, she thought defiantly. And
Max Stewart could go hang! But not, she decided grimly,
before she saw what sort of women he really wanted to
spend the rest of his life with. She pulled the violet outfit
out of the wardrobe, broodingly aware that the infamous
Mia would be studying the opposition if she went to the
party. Well, Evie decided firmly, Ms Mia Koen wouldn't
find her wanting.
'How could you?' Evie hissed, face proud and jewels
glittering in the firelight as she faced the dastardly Max. 'How
could you have another woman when you had my love?'
His swarthy face cruel and uncaring, Max advanced on
her, mouth set in a grim line. His eyes raked over her figure,
elegant in the amethyst ball gown, the corsets holding her tiny
waist in to a slender eighteen inches. 'Because I wanted you, I
couldn't help it. I admit it, she is to be my wife, but you and I
can still be lovers. You want it, you know you do. You are the
most exciting woman I have ever known. Rut I must marry
her to save my family's fortune.'
'For your insolence, you deserve to die!' hissed Evie, producing
a tiny pearl-handled pistol from the folds of her silken
shawl. His cowardly face paled to the colour of his ruffled
shirt.
'No!' Mia ran in, heavily bleached hair piled up in a
ridiculous pompadour, wearing a vulgar, low-cut dress that
was a riot of gaudy colours, with paste jewels clustered heavily
around her thick neck. 'Don't shoot!'
'I must, he has dishonoured me,' Evie said grimly, thinking
of the shame he could bring on her noble family.
'No, Madame Evie,' said a cool voice. I must shoot him for
dishonouring you.' The Duke, elegance itself in his beautifully
cut breeches, strode manfully into the room, his handsome face
making Max look overblown and coarse . . .
'Mum,' said Rosie, sticking her head round the door.
'You missed a yummy lunch. I'm going to turn into a crab
if I eat any more of it. Are you coming down to the pool
for a last bit of sunbathing?'
Stretched out on her lounger, Evie turned the pages of her book listlessly and laughed as Cara and Rosie held
races in the pool with Andrew doing the Olympic commentator
coverage:
And Cara Fraser has proved herself to be a champion swimmer today even though she stuffed her face with gambas pil pil at lunch,' droned Andrew, in intense radio
presenter style, 'while Rosie Mitchell has just switched
styles into the . . . er, butterfly flop and is drowning everybody
else around the pool.
'Now, in a surprise move, ex-Olympic medallist Mrs
Vida Fraser is getting into the pool to show these youngsters
how it's really done. Mrs Fraser, better known ;is
Esther Williams's sidekick, has great hip movement . . .'
Andrew stopped when Vida and Cara managed to hit him
with the inflatable plastic whale Rosie had bought to
lounge on.
Despite all the high-jinks going on around her, Evie's
misery never lifted. She kept her nose buried in her book
but didn't manage to read a word all afternoon. Max was
out until six, when he walked down to the pool and threw
himself on to the lounger between Cara and Evie.
Instantly, Evie got up and collected up her things. 'Well,
I'm going to get ready to go out. We're leaving at ... eight,
is it? I'll meet you all at the car then.' She ran upstairs and
locked her bedroom door, just in case he tried to follow
her.
By ten to eight she was dressed in the violet ensemble,
which was, she realised glumly, the most beautiful outfit
she'd ever owned in her life. Her bare legs were golden
thanks to some of Rosie's fake tan, so that when the
skirt's thigh-high side split parted revealingly, at least she
wasn't displaying acres of white flesh. The off-the
shoulder cut to the clingy little top meant you couldn't
really wear a bra unless it was strapless and, lacking one,
Evie decided to go braless.
Tough titty, indeed, Mr Stewart, she thought mirthlessly,
dusting her shoulders with bronzing powder and noticing
that the outline of her nipples was ever so slightly visible
when the top was pulled close down around her body.
Once she'd pulled Vida's heated rollers from her head, her
hair sat in perfect glossy curls.
It was as if she'd been given a make-over from Heaven,
only tonight the man she'd wanted to look beautiful for
wouldn't give a damn. He'd have eyes only for his bloody
actress girlfriend.
Grabbing her handbag, she stomped downstairs and
joined Andrew and Vida on the verandah, completely
ignoring Max and the look of admiration on his face when
he clocked her in the clinging violet.
If Max thought it was strange that the woman who'd
writhed under him in ecstasy the night before was barely
giving him the time of day now, he never got a moment to
say so.
Evie sat in the back of the car with Vida after waving
goodbye to Rosie and Cara, who were planning their own
girls' night out, a night that involved Rosie borrowing half
a ton of Olivia's eyeshadow and a lot of Evie's Poeme
perfume.
Andrew, Vida and Max chatted idly as Max drove out
the coast road.
'Wait till you see this place,' Max said. 'Franz is obsessed
with Westerns and says he fell in love with the ranch
because it's half Spanish villa and half like something from The High Chapparal. When he took me there the other
day, I almost expected him to strap on a couple of six guns
and a stetson when we got home so we could round up
some steers. He's a decent bloke, very sweet most of the
time, but on set he's incredibly demanding.'
The car swung off the main road and headed into craggy
mountains, rose pink in the setting sun. 'When we were
making the Strauss biopic, we finished shooting early, which never happens.'
How thrilling, Evie fumed silently. Was that before or
after your affair with nympho Mia?
They drove through the mountains for another half hour
before taking a side road oft into a dusty landscape. They
passed a small village and then, to the right, perched
perilously on a hill, saw a sprawling villa, gleaming white in
the evening with lots of stables and outhouses extending
behind it and tubs of blossoming flowers to the front.
Various cars were parked haphazardly on the drive, one
a stretch limo so long Evie imagined you could play tennis
in it. Mia's car, she figured, feeling her stomach knot with
tension. Half-expecting a group of show business harpies
who all bitched relentlessly and looked like extras from a
rock video, Evie was surprised when the huge wooden
door opened and Franz appeared. Their host was a short
bald man with an enormous belly and a friendly, welcoming
smile. After kissing Vida and Evie as if they were old
friends, he ushered everyone into a house decorated in
typical Spanish style and yelled, over a background of
opera, for Luisa, his wife.
'The others are here and there,' he explained, shouting
over the noise, 'but they wake up when the champagne
corks go bang!'
Luisa was grey-haired, motherly, and wearing an apron
over a very sedate flower print dress. 'I'm cooking paella and everybody keeps stealing nibbles,' she groaned, waving
a giant spoon. 'Come on, come on.'
The party was in full swing in a large room with a
balcony off it, although Evie reckoned by the state of some
of the guests that they were still partying from the
lunchtime session. They all looked very ordinary, no rock
star types or movie moguls waving cigars and Rolexes
around: just happy people red-faced from the sun, some
still in T-shirts and shorts, others more formally dressed in
summer dresses or polo shirts and casual trousers. Evie felt
as overdressed as a strippergram in an Eskimo suit.
Max was immediately swallowed up by the crowd,
delighted to see him and shouting 'Max, over here!' in a
variety of languages. Nobody was glamorous or desperately
exciting. Instead, they all looked like Evie had after
her first few days in Spain: tired but utterly thrilled to be
away from work and in a place where the sun shone
every day.
She soon found herself chatting to Franz's favourite
cameraman, Lippo, who was supposed to be going home
the next day but had decided that he and his makeup
artist wife weren't going back for another couple of days
because they were too worn out after a four-month
production on location in the Black Forest. 'He works
non-stop,' shrugged Lippo's wife, Helene, before getting off
the couch to phone home and tell their teenage twin sons
the news that they'd return on Wednesday.
They're nineteen and I'm afraid the house will be
wrecked by their partying when we get back home,' Lippo
confessed mournfully.
'I know the feeling,' Evie said. 'My daughter's seventeen
but she's with us on holiday. She's out for the evening.'
Evie accepted a glass of water from Franz, despite his
attempts to get her to take alcohol. After her Martini
debacle, she was determined to remain as sober as a judge.
'I worry myself sick about her but I think she'll be all right
tonight. She's with my sister who's nine years older than
her and should be in charge, though when they're together,
it's like having two teenagers.'
The twins don't sound too upset,' remarked Helene
arriving back with a bowl of olives. The vacuum is broken
apparently, and I ask how they know because they never
use it!'
Marvellous paella smells coming from the balcony proclaimed
that Luisa's dinner was finally ready.
'We're eating outside because the dining-room table
disappear when we move,' Franz announced, leading
everyone out to the enormous balcony where places were
laid on two vast wrought-iron tables. Sitting with Lippo
and Helene, chatting and laughing and eating enormous
black olives, Evie began to relax and stopped worrying
about whether she was overdressed or not.
Max was chatting to Franz about work the whole time
and kept shooting her almost pleading glances, as if to say,
What have I done wrong?
Evie was on the verge of smiling back to say, Nothing, I
was just fretting about something that happened a long
time ago, when something caught Max's eye. Or someone.
The chattering and laughing continued unabated as
Evie followed Max's gaze and saw a woman slip quietly
into the room from the balcony and pick up a packet of
Marlboros from a coffee table. Her lustrous chestnut hair
was tied up in a casual knot and her heart-shaped face
dominated by the most perfect mouth Evie had ever seen
outside a lipstick commercial. Slanting, cat-like dark eyes
were ringed with thick dark Sashes and practically no
other make-up. Lighting up, she put the cigarette between
her perfect lips and inhaled deeply, with the finesse of a
young Bardot.
Mia wasn't movie-star tall, the way Evie had imagined
her to be. In fact, she was petite and so delicately slim as to
make every other woman in the room look like a 2,000passenger
cruise liner beside a sleek racing yacht built for
two. A minuscule white T-shirt stretched across her tiny
frame had 'I'm Purr-feet' written on it and she'd tied a
white sarong around her bronzed waist as if she'd only just
got out of bed and had flung on the first thing to hand in
order to cover herself. But Evie reckoned Mia would have
no problem sashaying around clad just in a bikini no
matter what time of the day or night it was. She looked
stunning and, from the way she gazed around the room in
predatory silence, she knew it. Evie loathed her on sight.
She glanced quickly towards Max, watched his Adam's
apple contract as he gulped at the sight of Mia, and felt as
if she'd been punched in the stomach. Nobody could
remain unmoved by somebody as beautiful as that. And
Max almost certainly was moved. His gaze flickered back
towards Evie but, before he could catch her eye, she
immediately turned to Helene and muttered something
inane about the weather.
Everyone was too busy to notice Mia and Max move
into the hallway, Mia's tanned and slender arm wrapping
itself possessively around his. But Evie noticed.
The meal continued, with applause for Luisa's cooking
and even more applause when Franz brought out a bottle
of Sambucca and a box of matches to go with the
enormous fruit salad everyone was having for dessert.
Evie was on autopilot, wondering how long she'd be able
to cope with this. It bad been a huge mistake to come here.
She couldn't bear the sadness inside her at the thought
that Max was involved with Mia after all the things he'd
said to her.
When Max and Mia arrived on the balcony half an hour
later, Evie stiffened. Mia's face was happy, her mouth curved
into a wonderful smile. She slid into Max's vacant seat
beside Franz, leaving Max to search for a spare chair. He
dragged it to the table and looked up as if to figure out
where he'd position it, when Mia pulled his sleeve and made
him sit beside her. She leaned forward, murmured something
into his ear and then brushed her mouth against his
cheek. He smiled. Evie watched, jealousy rattling inside her.
Helene laid a soft hand on Evie's arm. 'Mia flirts,' she
said simply. 'It is her way.'
'It's nothing to do with me what Mia does,' Evie said,
with a false laugh.
Helene shrugged. 'I think Max would want you to
understand Mia. She and he were . . . involved,' Helene
said with a Gallic raising of eyebrows to imply that the
involvement was more than just meetings to discuss production
values. 'It is over but now Mia wants it back. She is
bored and is used to having her own way.'
'I can see that,' Evie said drily, as Max obediently held a
lighter up to Mia's cigarette. 'If she wants him, she can
have him.'
Helene leaned closer. 'I know him a long time,' she
whispered. 'He doesn't want her but he is kind. He lets her
down easily, as you say. It is you his eyes follow all the time.'
Stirring sugar into her cooling coffee, Evie spoke bitterly:
'Max is a man, Helene. His eyes follow anything female
with a pulse, and as it happens I'm getting married next
month. So I really don't care whether he and Mia rekindle
their fling or not.'
She pushed back her chair and rushed inside, desperate
to find the loo before she started to blub again. The third
door she opened led her into a small cloakroom decorated
with French lithographs of semi-nude Edwardian girls
advertising beauty soap. She stayed there, sitting on the
toilet lid until Luisa knocked gently on the door and asked
if she was unwell.
'Yes,' Evie said truthfully, opening the door. She was sick
with despair, after all. 'Could you ring a taxi for me, Luisa?'
she begged. 'I want to go home but I don't want to break
up the party. I just want to slip away. Will you get Vida to
bring me my handbag so I can tell her? Rut don't tell
anyone else.'
Luisa's kind, understanding face nearly made her cry. 'I
will do it,' she said.
Vida wanted to drive her home but Evie was firm. 'It's
just a migraine,' she said. 'Please don't come, it's too early
to break up the party on the last night of the holiday. I'll
be fine. Don't say anything to anyone, please,' she
implored.
The taxi cost practically all the money she had with her,
but she was so grateful to the driver for getting her away
from the party that she'd have paid him double. At the
villa she roamed around downstairs for ages, tidying up the
kitchen, wiping down surfaces with a cloth and sweeping
the marble floors. When she heard the wooden gates being
opened, she ran upstairs, left her bedroom light off as she
pulled off her clothes and threw herself into bed. Her
breathing had only just got back to normal after her dash
upstairs, when she heard the bedroom door open.
'Evie,' said Max in a low voice.
Clutching the bedclothes tightly, she kept her eyes glued
shut and didn't move.
'Evie,' he said again.
When he still received no reply, the door shut again
quietly. She cried herself to sleep.

Cara flopped down on the bar stool Rosie had been holding
for her, exhausted after boogying for half an hour with a
tall, slim Greek boy named Tim. Lean and hungry-looking,
he was one of the best dancers she'd ever met, with a pelvis
that swivelled like Elvis's in Viva Las Vegas. He was proving
to be one of the best kissers too. The way he'd French
kissed her on the dance floor made her realise how much she missed the constant love making with Ewan.
When they'd been together, there'd never been a minute
when they weren't touching, holding hands or giving each other small, affectionate kisses. It was that affection she
missed, she thought, a shaft of misery piercing her. Why
was it that marvellous moments made her sad? Even when
she and Evie had been relaxing by the pool, in blissful
sunshine, she'd felt maudlin. Being happy was so bloody
bittersweet.
But despite thinking about times past, Cara was enjoying
herself. Feeling Tim's mouth superglued to hers, his tongue
plunging excitingly down her throat, had made her feel sexy
for the first time since she and Ewan had split up- Maybe he
was the one, the all-important post-relationship bonk. He
was very charming and obviously fancied the knickers off
her. Cara grinned, glad she'd worn her clinging sharkskin
trousers, even though she was afraid she'd roast in them.
'Talk about tonsil hockey,' grinned Rosie, when she
turned around on her bar stool to talk to her aunt. 'I was
afraid I'd have to send a search party down your throat
with a rope and crampons to haul him up.'
Cara erupted into laughter. 'I was a bit worried myself,'
she said. 'But he's cute, isn't he?'
'Very cute,' Rosie agreed, 'and, boy, is he eager.' She
leaned forward and whispered into Cara's ear. 'His friend
was just as eager but I told him I don't rate a quick screw
outside a Spanish nightclub as the ideal way to lose my
virginity. That soon shut him up.'
Cara howled with laughter. 'If your mother ever heard
you talk like that . . .' she said.
'She'd be pleased I wouldn't dream of bonking some
complete stranger,' Rosie pointed out. 'I'm not throwing
myself away on someone who won't remember my name
in the morning. My generation has a different attitude to
sex from yours,' she added reprovingly. 'Quick casual flings
aren't true to the message of strong women. I have too
much respect for myself to do that.'
'Yeah,' said Cara, feeling chastened that her seventeen-year-old
niece had her head screwed on more firmly than
she did when it came to sex. Lord knew what Rosie would
say if she knew Cara had bonked her company's motorbike
courier thanks to nothing more than about a zillion Tequila
Slammers and a total lack of inhibition. Respect didn't
even come into it.
'It's not a conservative morality thing,' continued Rosie,
the stalwart of the debating society getting into full swing.
'It's about being strong and valuing yourself and your
body. We have discussions about this all the time. You
know, if Brad Pitt appeared and asked you to have sex,
you'd go mad for him, wouldn't you? But,' Rosie sipped
her beer thoughtfully, 'you wouldn't be doing yourself any
favours. You'd just be some old slag to him and you'd
never forgive yourself
'No, you wouldn't,' Cara murmured, thinking that if
Brad Pitt landed in her flat looking for sex, she, Phoebe and
Zoe would probably flatten each other in their attempts to
get to him first. If it was a generational thing, then Rosie's
generation were so different from hers.
Cara's peers thought it was a sign of equality to treat
men on their own terms, to be a lad, to have sex with
the thoughtlessness of men. Whereas Rosie's generation
obviously thought that treating men with detachment
until it suited them to get close was the way forward.
Reflecting on the complete disaster she'd made of her
own personal life, Cara decided that her niece had it all
worked out.
'Wanna dance, Rosie babes?' said a voice. It was Gwynnie,
a blonde Australian girl, who, with her two pals, had
befriended Rosie while Cara had been off with Tim. 'See ya
got rid of the geek!'
'Yeah, he obviously thought he was a customs officer,'
Rosie joked, 'hands all over the place. I told him to shove
off. Let's dance.'
Cara watched the younger girls head for the cramped
dance floor where they danced with abandon, hair and
arms flying rhythmically, definitely not requiring any guys
to make their evening go with a bang.
'You kept me a seat,' said Tim, appearing miraculously
with a bottle of beer.
'Oh, er, yeah,' said Cara, not sure what to do with him
after Rosie's sobering denunciation of casual sex. Perhaps
that post-relationship bonk was a bad idea after all. But
Tim, high on strong Spanish beer and turned on by
dancing with this Amazonian beauty of a girl, was in the
mood for lurve.
He sat close to Cara, nuzzling her neck and whispering
sweet nothings in her ear in Greek. At least she hoped they
were sweet nothings - he could have been reciting her
extracts from the chemical engineering textbooks he was
studying in college for all she knew.
It had sounded lovely earlier, when they'd been lulled by
sexy music throbbing out an erotic beat. Now, with Rosie's
condemnation of laddishness ringing in her ears, Tim's
murmurings were decidedly less erotic.
It was after twelve, the club was growing hotter and it
was jammed. There were people crowded around them,
crushing Tim closer to Cara as they tried to get to the bar.
Sweat glistened on his forehead and Cara could feel the
back of her thighs growing damper by the minute in her
sharkskin trousers. She took a cooling sip of mineral water
but that only helped for a moment. It was so hot and
sticky. What she really wanted was to get outside and feel a
refreshing breeze on her face.
'I need some air,' she gasped to Tim. 'I'll be back in a
minute.'
Smirking, he followed her through the throng and past
the loos until they reached a small dark courtyard at the
back of the club where heaving bodies swayed in the
moonlight. The music was muffled out here but it was
wonderfully cool after the volcanic temperature inside.
Cara flapped her crimson shirt around her body to cool
herself and found herself jammed up against the wall by an
eager Tim. The whitewashed plaster was uneven and
ground into her back as Tim ground himself into her front,
tongue on overdrive and hands body-searching madly. Like
Rosie's would-be customs officer, Cara thought in shock.
Frozen in surprise, she said and did nothing. She could
hardly complain, could she? They had been glued to each
other all evening and he'd evidently assumed her desire for
a little night air was a coded message of desire for him. The
Greek sweet nothings had dried up as Tim buried his head
in her chest, moving downwards.
Cara felt suddenly weary. She didn't want this, she
wanted to go home and climb into bed between cool, clean
sheets to read her book. But it was all her own fault. She'd
led him on and now he wanted to collect. It was always her
own fault: a couple of drinks and she felt happy, confident
and capable of flirting. The only problem was, flirting was
only permissible when you were able to head the flirter off
at the pass.
The way she handled it, they took her lack of resistance
to mean all systems go and railroaded their way on
through. Tim was groaning, frantically trying to open the
button to her trousers. The waistband was tight after six
days of glorious Spanish food and opening the button
almost impossible, even when you wanted to. Cara didn't.
What the hell was she letting this drunken kid unbutton
her trousers for? What the hell was she doing out here?
She didn't want to be here and she was going inside, now!
'Tim!' she barked, shoving him and his burrowing hands
away from her with all her considerable strength. 'Whaddya
think you're doing?'
'What we both want,' he said, smirking.
'I came out here because I wanted air, not you!' she said
fiercely.
Stunned, his face like a spoiled child told he's not
getting the latest Sony PlayStation for his birthday, he
gazed at her. 'But you came outside . . .' he stammered.
'For air, Tim!' she yelled. "I said I wanted air and that's
what I meant. I told you I'd come back.'
Eyes flashing, he shrugged. 'Women never say what they
mean.' he said dismissively.
Cara drew herself up to her full height, gave him a
pitying look, and drawled: 'Well, I do, sunshine. And as we
say in Ireland, you can rev up and fuck off. Goodbye.'
Feeling ten feet tall, she turned on her heel and strode
majestically into the club, shoving her shirt back into her
trousers and flicking back her hair in triumph. Talk about
girl power and respect! Yes!
Why hadn't she done that years ago? Bloody Owen
Theal would have benefited from some of that treatment and
perhaps a good left hook to the jaw into the bargain,
she thought with satisfaction. Suddenly she was filled with
longing for Ewan, for his arms around her and his mouth
crushed against hers. What had she been playing at with
Tim? What had she been playing at with Ewan, come to
that? She'd completely screwed up their relationship
thanks to her neuroses. It was about time she got to grips
with her problems and started living.
Cara felt her head filling with plans and ideas. She'd
phone Ewan the moment they got home, tell him she was
crazy about him and announce to the entire office they
were in love. And she'd find a counsellor in the phone
book, someone to open all the locked doors in her mind,
doors behind which demons lurked; ones that looked like
Owen Theal.
She moved to the pulsating Euro disco beat and joined
Rosie and Gwynnie on the swarming dance floor. 'Hey,
girls, where are we going next?'

Evie dragged her suitcase downstairs and left it by the
door. As if by magic, Max appeared.
'Evie, why didn't you tell me you wanted to leave early
last night? I'd have driven you home.'
'There was no need,' she said evenly. After spending
much of the night rehearsing exactly what she'd say to
Max, she couldn't let herself down by screaming that she
was as jealous as sin and he was a dirty double crosser to
have her and Mia going at the same time. 'I was tired and
needed a rest.'
Max looked as if he needed a rest himself. His face was
drained and, despite his healthy bronze colour, there were
shadows under the normally blazing cobalt blue eyes that
today looked dimmed somehow.
'We need to talk,' he said urgently, 'about last night.'
'Why?' she asked briskly. 'I'm not your keeper.'
'I don't want you to get the wrong idea, Evie.' he said,
raking a hand through his shining black hair.
She smiled coldly at him. "I don't have any wrong ideas,
Max. I merely needed to get away from everyone to come
to my senses and consider what I nearly threw away.'
She meant the words to cut him to the hone and they
did, she was sure of that. He recoiled slightly.
'What,' he said, eyes narrowed, 'does that mean precisely?'
'Just that,' she replied. 'Simon's a good man. I can't
believe I nearly threw my whole future away for a hen
night fling.'
The words nearly stuck in her throat. Her night had
been nothing like a hen night fling. It had been wondrous,
passionate, the most incredible night of her life. But she
couldn't let him know that. No way.
'So that's all it was to you?' he said. 'A hen night fling?'
Evie could see hurt and bewilderment in his eyes but
she ploughed on.
'Come on, Max,' she replied, words dripping cynicism,
'don't tell me it was any different for you?' "I love you" is
very easy to say in the heat of passion, isn't it?'
'No,' he said flatly. 'It's not. Not for me.'
'Poor you then.'
She walked past him into the garden, wanting to put as
much distance as possible between them. It would be so
easy to crack, to cling to him and say she didn't care if he
had ten women on the go at one time, so long as she could
be one of them.
Swallowing deeply to control the lump in her throat,
Evie walked across the lawn, still damp from the morning
sprinklers. All she had to do was get through the journey
home and then she'd never have to see Max Stewart again.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The washing machine repair man ate three Penguins and
had two mugs of tea before he left.
'I'll give you a bell when I've got the part. Should he
Thursday,' he said cheerily as Evie stood on the doorstep
seeing him out. 'I still think it's better to get a new
machine,' he added, shaking his head at the notions of
women. 'That'll only give you another few months at best,
but it's up to you.'
'No, it's not,' she muttered to herself, slamming the
door. 'It's up to the bank manager.' Buying a new washing
machine was undoubtedly the most sensible option since
the motor in her seven-year-old one had conked out faced
with acres of holiday washing.
But replacing the motor would give her at least
another year out of the machine and, as she couldn't
afford a new one, it was the only option. Irritatingly, not
getting it fixed until Thursday meant she'd have to lug
everything down the road to the launderette. Just as well
she'd taken Monday off to sort herself out after the
holiday. Some holiday! She may have looked happily
tanned, but on the inside Evie felt as blue as Picasso's
famous monochrome period. She sneezed abruptly and
her eyes watered. A cold; she was also getting a cold. All
she bloody needed.
The phone rang and she answered it listlessly, trying to
reach the tissue she'd jammed up her cardigan sleeve to
stem her sniffles. It was Simon, phoning for the second
time that day to assure her he was on track for their
lunch time reunion. He'd been at his favourite aunt's
hospital bedside over the weekend and so hadn't seen Evie
since she and Rosie had arrived home from Spain.
Which was merciful, she thought, feeling the usual
pangs of guilt whenever she thought about him. At least
with a couple of days' grace, she'd be able to arrange her
face into some sort of post-holiday smile and pretend
she'd had a good time. Otherwise, he'd see the bleak,
hollow eyes that stared back at Evie every time she
looked in the mirror and even Simon, not the most
sensitive person in the cosmos, would realise that something
was wrong.
'Hugh gave me a wedding present this morning,' he was
saying proudly, obviously thrilled that the senior partner in
the firm had deigned to remember Simon and Evie's
forthcoming nuptials.
'Oh, what is it?'
'A Lladro dancing couple,' Simon said excitedly. 'Apparently,
it's very expensive stuff
Lovely,' Evie replied. She hated Lladro.
'I've booked a table for one o'clock in Kite's in
Ballsbridge as a special treat, is that all right?'
"I have a wedding dress fitting,' Evie reminded him, 'so I
might be late. You know what the traffic is like.'
'I'll order for you if you're late,' Simon said cosily.
'Sesame prawn toast and chicken in black bean sauce.'
Evie suppressed an urge to shriek that she didn't want
anyone deciding what she'd eat, she'd bloody well pick her
own lunch, thank you very much.
'Great,' she said. 'Must go, love. 'Bye.'
She was running so late that she had to abandon the car
on a double yellow line in Ranelagh to run into Bridal
Daydreams where four women were oohing and aahing
over a short blonde who looked miserable at being jammed
into yards of unflattering satin in a design that looked like
a meringue waiting for the cream and kiwi fruit to be
ladled on.
'I prefer the shift dress,' the poor girl was saying,
although nobody was listening.
At least I don't have a committee orchestrating my wedding dress, Evie thought gratefully, slipping into the
alterations room. Sweating from her sprint, she ripped off
her clothes and then had to fan herself with a Brides magazine for five minutes so she wouldn't destroy the
dress with perspiration.
'Lord, haven't you lost weight?' squealed Delphine, the
dressmaker, as delightedly as she could with several pins
jammed into the side of her mouth. All my brides lose a
few pounds but you've lost at least half a stone.'
'Really?' commented Evie, totally unmoved by information
that, two months ago, would have thrilled her to her
bones. What a way to lose a few pounds! The Max Stewart
Disaster Diet - spend a few nights with our hero and
you'll never fancy a mayonnaise-and-full-fat-cheese-sandwich
ever again.
"You don't want to lose too much,' warned Delphine, on
her knees and pinning expertly. 'Or it'll be hanging on you.
This style needs some bosom.'
The dress was a Jane Austen classic: Empire-line oyster
satin with an embroidered bodice and lace-covered sleeves.
The sort of dress Evie had purred over on the cover of her
favourite Regency novels. Now, it didn't give her the same
frisson of excitement when she thought she was actually
going to glide down the aisle wearing it.
Delphine was going on about being thin again and how
she'd gone back to Weight Watchers in the hope of getting
rid of that impossible-to-shift three stone.
Evie looked at her own reflection in the wall-sized
mirror gloomily. Despite having lost a few pounds, she
was never going to be thin. Not Mia Koen thin anyway.
You were either born with that thoroughbred bone structure
or you weren't. No amount of dieting would give her spindly legs perfect for wearing floaty knee-length dresses
and strappy sandals in sorbet-coloured suede. Or even
casually thrown on sarongs and minuscule T-shirts, for
that matter.
They were now on to the knotty subject of low-calorie
biscuits. Delphine, mouth still full of pins, was an aficionado
of every calorie-controlled item in the supermarket.
Evie let her chatter away and mentally drifted off to a
warm Spanish night where the cicadas made sweet music
and Max's body had worshipped hers. What was he doing
now? she wondered. Was he tucked away in some remote
cosy hotel with Mia, kissing and making love, hating
themselves for having wasted so much time when they
could have been together? Did Max cuddle Mia after
they'd made love, spooning his big body around her
fragile one, stroking her with a sense of affectionate
wonder? Evie must have looked so desolate suddenly that
Delphine stopped talking and stared at her little face,
pale under the tan.
'Cheer up, love.' Delphine squeezed her arm encouragingly.
'All girls get last-minute nerves - so do the lads, come
to think of it. But it'll be fine. He'd want to be out of his
mind to leave a lovely thing like yourself standing at the
altar. Anyway, as the bishop says, there's always divorce if
things go wrong!' Delphine screamed with laughter at her
own humour.
'Yes.' Evie replied politely, thinking that things had
already gone wrong and they hadn't even got as far as the
altar.

Simon was sipping mineral water with a very pleased
expression on his face when Evie rushed into Kite's,
twenty minutes late, having guiltily abandoned the car on
yet another double yellow line.
'Had to park on Pembroke Road,' she gasped. "I hope I
won't be clamped.'
'Oh, Evie,' he said disapprovingly. 'You should have
parked in the Herbert Park Hotel like I did.'
'You're not supposed to unless you're going there,' she
protested, tired from all her rushing about and twice as
tired of Simon's small-mindedness. He could bore for
Ireland in the Olympics about car parking in Dublin city.
'Have you ordered?' she asked. Anything to stem the
inevitable "I know a little car park on Shelbourne Road
that nobody else knows about' conversation.
'Yes. I hope you're in the mood for sesame prawn toast?'
he added, looking unsure of himself. 'If you're not, you can
have my spare ribs.'
Touched, she got up from her seat, leaned over the table
and kissed him on the cheek. For once, Simon didn't shy
away from the public demonstration of affection.
'I missed you,' he said in a whisper, and grabbed her
hand under the tablecloth when she sat down again.
Evie smiled back, desolate at the thought that, after a
separation of a week, Max would have grabbed her in full
view of the entire restaurant and kissed her so hard she'd
have needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and a moment
in an oxygen tent afterwards.
After a quick squeeze, Simon withdrew his hand and
began to describe the Lladro wedding present in great
detail. He only stopped when their starters arrived and
then, after a brief nibble of his spare ribs, went on to
discuss the implications of receiving such a large and
expensive present from the boss.
'It's a good sign,' he said earnestly, pushing his hornrimmed
glasses on to the bridge of his bony nose, one hand
wielding a spare rib recklessly. 'Hugh wouldn't do that for
just anybody, you know. It's fast track all the way to
partnership, I tell you, Evie.'
Evie, thinking of the whiskey-drinking, bimbo-loving
Hugh of the Christmas party and his sad wife, Hilda,
reckoned it was far more likely that she had remembered
Evie's kindness to her that night and wanted to reward it
in some way with a decent wedding present. Hugh
looked like the sort of man who only remembered golf
handicaps and how much money he was worth. Simon's
wedding wouldn't register in his mind. But she said
nothing.
She picked at her sesame prawn toast, sorry that she was
wasting such a nice meal by feeling ill and not even slightly
hungry. Her throat was getting sore and she felt fluey. She
wondered if Kite's could magic up a hot whiskey for her?
That'd nip her impending 'flu in the bud.
'Now that's something else I wanted to talk to you
about,' Simon was saying, having eaten all his ribs. 'Phillip
Knight and I were having a discussion this morning in the
boardroom . . .'
Evie didn't hear anything else. She dropped her dainty
piece of toast in horror. Phillip Knight? The partner she
and Max had bumped into when they'd shared that illicit
lunch together. Had he told Simon that he'd disturbed a
cosy tete-a-tete between his future wife and her handsome
stepbrother? Of course he had. What else could such an
intimate meeting mean? Simon had a bit of spare rib stuck between his teeth. She stared at it, mesmerised and silent,
waiting for the knife to fall.
The wedding list, Evie. We simply have to have one. I
know you're dead set against it but come on, in this day
and age, you need one.'
Evie hated wedding lists, loo often she'd felt ashamed at
only being able to afford some tiny china cake knife on the
list because she was broke and couldn't dream of coughing
up for six exquisite John Rocha wine glasses. Today, she
was passionately grateful for wedding lists.
'Simon,' she said, thrilled at the reprieve, 'you're right.
We do need one. Would you like to organise it?'
Shocked, he blinked at her, grey eyes wide behind his
glasses. "I can't do it on my own,' he said. We've got to do
it together, Evie. You are slagging me, aren't you?' he asked
suspiciously.
She grinned. 'Yes, and you've got some spare ribs stuck
in your teeth.'
Simon went pink and dashed off to the loo to remove
it. Evie took advantage of his absence to order a glass of
red wine for herself. Simon disapproved of drinking at
lunchtime but she felt that something alcoholic would
cheer her up.
'Are you sure you'll be able to drive home after that?' he
said reprovingly when he came back.
The next topic of conversation was wedding acceptances.
As it was her second wedding, Evie felt there was no
point going on with all the palaver about her father
inviting everyone to this joyous occasion, etc, etc, so the
invitations had asked people to reply to her address.
The replies had started to trickle in. People were thrilled
to attend the wedding of Evie Fraser and Simon Todd. A
few wondered where to send the presents and inquired
about a wedding list.
'Mummy wants to buy us something special,' Simon
said.
She could start with a washing machine, Evie thought.
Actually, she's getting miserable, thinking about next
Christmas and all that,' he added.
Evie felt sorry for him. His mother, a sweet but clingy
woman, treated Simon like an angel sent down from
Heaven to make her life liveable. It was a huge burden on
him, particularly as he was her only child. He'd spent every
Christmas since he was born with his mother. Evidently,
the thought that Simon would no longer be able to spend
endless hours with her had made her even more clingy
than usual.
'I had an idea,' he continued slowly. 'If we sold both
houses and got one with a granny flat . . . What do you
think? I know it's a lot to ask you but . . .' He trailed off,
waiting for her reaction.
Evie was silent. She felt the door clang shut ominously.
Like Sleeping Beauty trapped in her tower, she was
trapped by Empire-line dresses, cream-embossed wedding
invitations, wedding lists - and Simon's mother, Mary. She
had a sudden vision of the three of them, all playing bridge
in a noiseless house stuffed with anti-macassars, dusty
dried flowers and old Todd family pictures in tarnished
silver frames. All old before their time, days unbroken by
anything except the drudgery of work and the occasional
glass of sherry when the equally aged neighbours came round for tea and Mary Todd's famed shortbread. It was a
vision which horrified her.
'It's a lot to ask. Too much, isn't it?' Simon said quietly.
Unbidden, another vision fought its way into Evie's head:
a vision of herself in twenty years' time, lonely because she'd
screwed up any chance of happiness, desperately hoping
Rosie would take her in so she wouldn't have to live alone with the memories of Max and how he'd destroyed her
future with Simon. That couldn't happen! She wouldn't lei
it. She didn't want to turn into Simon's mother.
'It's not too much to ask,' she said firmly, unable to look
at him. "I know how much your mother relies on you.
You'd do the same for me.'
The key turned slowly in the lock, imprisoning her
forever. Eyes shining, Simon beamed at Evie across his
sizzling beef.
She forced herself to smile back, a false grimace that
Max would have seen through in a moment. Why did it
always come back to him?
'You're so good to me, Evie.' Simon couldn't contain his
delight.
If only you knew, she thought bitterly.

Rosie arrived home at the same time as Evie, flushed with
happiness and looking striking in a strappy little rust top
and denim skirt, both of which looked suspiciously new to
her mother.
'Hiya, Mum,' she carolled, practically dancing into the'
sitting room, long dark hair bouncing, sloe-black eyes
glittering.
'You're in a good mood,' Evie said when she'd recovered
from a sudden burst of sneezing.
Rosie grinned at her, white teeth gleaming in her suntanned
face. 'You'll never guess . . .'
Evie threw herself on to the couch, lay down flat and
began to massage her aching temples. 'I can't guess today,
love. I can't think for that matter. I've been coughing and
sneezing all day. I think I'm getting something.'
'Poor Mum.' Rosie perched on the edge of the coffee
table, obviously dying to impart her good news whether
Evie was dying or not. 'I've got a job for the summer!'
'Great.' Evie raised her weary head and blew a proud
kiss in Rosie's direction. 'I told you I'd probably be able to
sort something out for you but you'd hate Wentworth
Alarms, so I'm glad you've got something else. What is it?'
'A runner in Max's production company,' Rosie
answered joyously, not noticing the look of horror on her
mother's face. 'I told him I'd love to do something fun
like that for the summer and he said he'd set it up. I
went to see the production manager today and I start on
Wednesday. It's being a gopher really, but I don't care.'
'That's wonderful, darling,' Evie said, the band of pain
around her temples tightening.
'They're starting filming scenes in Wicklow next week,'
gabbled Rosie. 'I can't wait.' She rattled on energetically,
talking about what a lovely office DWS Productions had
and how she hadn't seen Max but had met his personal
assistant, who was 'like that Indian Miss World, utterly,
depressingly gorgeous'.
She would be, Evie muttered to herself. Probably
couldn't type to save her life but she'd have other skills, none of them the sort of thing you could list on a CV unless
you wanted a job in a Soho lap-dancing club.
Trying to be happy for Rosie's sake, Evie made all the
right noises and agreed that, yes, Max was wonderful to
have set this up because lots of people probably wanted to
work in a production company as it was so glamorous.
'I know I haven't got paid yet,' Rosie revealed, 'but
they're paying me loads more than I got last year in the
wool shop, so I went shopping and bought this.' She patted
her new denim skirt and top happily.
When Rosie went off to phone her friends and tell them
the wonderful news that she had a job and new clothes into
the bargain, Evie made herself a hot lemon drink, added
some honey so it wouldn't taste as vile, and took it off to bed.
Wentworth Alarms looked exactly the same as usual:
squat, redbrick and undoubtedly full of irate customers all
waiting for Evie to come back so they could be dealt with.
She parked her car in her usual space at ten to nine on
Tuesday morning and climbed out wearily. A blast of cool
July wind shot past, making her sneeze madly. Everything
felt so cold after the blissful heat of Spain. She'd been
shivering since she'd got up, despite all the lemon drinks
and the anti-'flu tablets.
'Evie!' yelled a familiar voice. 'Welcome back. Did you
have a lovely time? You look great, so brown.'
Lorraine was much browner, in fact, a wonderful bronze
straight out of a Clarins bottle. All in pale linen like
something from White Mischief, she looked as if she was
the one who'd just come back from a week in the sun.
'Keep away or you'll get this,' snuffled Evie, pleased to
see Lorraine but not pleased at the thought of facing the
office after her week off.
'I never get anything,' said Lorraine, giving Evie a hug
anyway. 'Craig says I'm as strong as an ox. You've missed so
much, you can't imagine!'
'What?' asked Evie, startled for a brief moment out of
her Max and 'flu misery.
'Davis is resigning. Well, he has resigned. His health
means he can't work anymore. What do you think of that?'
Evie shrugged. 'I'm not surprised,' she said wearily. 'He's
been like a bear with a sore head for the past six months
since he was diagnosed with M.E. I knew it was only a
matter of time.'
Aren't you gutted?' Lorraine asked, astonished. 'You
worked for him for so long and he was always so nice to
you. Never to me, I might add. But he loved you.'
They'd reached the front door. Inside, the receptionist
was waving and smiling at Evie, who had no choice but to
smile inanely back.
She tried to bolster herself up. She couldn't go into work
this gloomy. You had to separate work from personal life,
or so she'd told various junior members of staff who'd
sobbed from nine to five because their boyfriends had
dumped them or because the dreaded blue line had
appeared on their pregnancy testers. 'You have to rise
above it and be professional in the office, no matter what's
happening on the inside,' Evie would lecture, while dispensing
hot tea and fig rolls. How irritating she must have
sounded.
'Lorraine, all bosses move on and we've got to go with
the flow,' she said finally. 'Davis was nearing retirement
age, anyway, so he had to go sometime.'
"I suppose,' Lorraine said. She made no move to open
the door, obviously loath to discuss this inside the building.
'His nephew is taking over,' she said quietly.
Evie did groan this time. 'That eejit!' she said. 'We may
as well all look for new jobs then, because he'll have us in
liquidation in three months.'
'Not that nephew,' Lorraine put in. 'God, he couldn't
arrange a piss up in a brewery! Another one. Davis's
brother's son from Belfast. Wait till you see him, Evie.
He's blond, tall, an absolute screw. And his accent is
beautiful ... so sexy. If you and I weren't so in love with
Simon and Craig, we'd be murdering each other to get
near him!
'C'mere,' she continued, pushing the door open. 'I love
the way you've left your hair down. It's much softer than
in your usual plait. And where did you get that copper
coloured shirt? I don't know why you don't get glammed
up more often, it suits you.'
Rosie was in love with the world of TV films and couldn't
stop talking about the hours it took to shoot just five
minutes of film.
'It's fascinating,' she told her mother, lying on her back
on the grass eating an apple while Evie determinedly
weeded her tiny back garden. Weeds put prospective house
purchasers off, or so Simon had written in the painstakingly
typed memo he'd given her on the art of selling.
Weeds, peeling paint, and plants that looked as if they'd
been holidaying in the Sahara were all no-nos, apparently.
So were untidy kitchens, lots of junk, personal knickknacks
and too much furniture cluttering the place up and
making it hard for the buyers to imagine their bookcase
where yours was.
Evie had spent all Saturday morning de-junking the
sitting room until it was practically a Zen retreat, with no
magazines, no books, no family photos and no trinkets. She'd
removed the small table beside the window where she kept
her collection of china animals until she realised that the
table was always kept there to hide a bit of carpet where a
thirteen-year-old Rosie had spilled neat Ribena. Evie stuck
the table back and put a white geranium on it instead,
gathering up her little pigs, seals, rabbits and elephants and
putting them safely in a box with tissue paper.
Now she was grimly tugging dandelions out of the
right-hand border to the accompanying barks of next
door's bored Jack Russell, who could bounce up and down
and appear startlingly over the fence when he was in an
energetic mood.
'Boris, shut up!' howled Rosie, throwing her apple core
over the fence. 'We're trying to have a conversation here.'
Boris took no notice.
Eventually, Rosie got up, leaned over the fence, picked
up the squirming little dog and put him down in their
garden, where he ran around delightedly, peeing all over
the weeds Evie was about to pull up. Peeing finished, he ran back to Rosie and licked her face with adoration for
having released him.
Are you hungry, little baby?' she crooned, tickling his
velvety toffee-coloured ears. 'Want a biccie?'
'Don't feed him biscuits,' Evie warned. 'Sophie has
warned us not to. The vet has him on a diet.'
As if he knew he was being talked about, Boris immediately
ran over to her and wriggled up against her adoringly,
demanding attention, hopeful she'd relent on the biscuit
front. She pulled off her gardening gloves and petted him.
He squirmed happily under her touch and rolled obligingly
on to his back, showing off his soft beige belly.
'Boris,' said Evie affectionately, tickling his belly and
wishing she could have a dog, 'how am I going to get any
work done with you here?'
After five minutes of unadulterated love from Evie,
Boris scrabbled to his feet and trotted off to make an
inventory of plants that required his own particular brand
of watering. Evie went back to weeding and Rosie went
back to describing just how incredible film-making was.
'It's got to be so boring for the actors,' she said. 'We're always doing something - the crew, I mean,' she added
proudly. 'But they have to hang around in their trailers the
whole time. One of them knits. Maisie . . . she plays the
housekeeper to this family it's about . . . she's making a
lovely jumper for her daughter. And some of the guys play
poker in Nicky Reilly's trailer.'
'Isn't he the guy who was in that detective series, Rozzers?' Evie asked, resorting to her trowel for one weed
that seemed to have millions of roots going off in every
direction.
'That's him. He plays the son of the Butler family, the one who was at Oxford and comes back just before the
First World War with a new bride, who's played by the
horrible Mia.'
Evie stopped digging. 'You mean Mia Koen's in it?' she
asked in an unnaturally high voice.
Rosie made a gagging noise. 'She's an absolute cow.
Everybody hates her.'
Evie smiled.
'Well,' Rosie said grudgingly, 'not everybody. The director
thinks the sun shines out of her every orifice but none
of the crew can stand her. She whines about everything. The catering van doesn't do the right salad dressing, her
caravan's too small, the heating doesn't work and the
weather's too cold. I mean, you don't come to Ireland for
the weather, do you?'
No, you come for the men, Evie thought, glowering.
'She's only been there two days and already we hate
her,' Rosie continued. 'Max'll soon sort her out when he
gets back from London,' she added gleefully. 'Remember
how he said he dealt with that mad woman who wanted
crates of bourbon and smoked salmon for her dog! He
won't stand for Miss Bossy Boots.'
I wouldn't bank on it, Evie thought wearily as she
started on another bed. He'd probably run to Mia's caravan
and solve her heating problem immediately, mainly by
jumping into her arms and . . . She couldn't bear to think
of the '. . . and'.
'The Butlers go ballistic to find that their son and heir
has married this Frenchwoman - Mia,' Rosie continued
with her plot revelations, 'and they say they won't accept
her. But she's got such a hold over the son that he'll do
anything for her.'
That figured. Evie wrenched a petunia out of the hard
soil by mistake.
'He goes off to war and gets killed and she has an
illegitimate son with his brother, but everyone thinks it's
her dead husband's. Then they find out and throw her out
of the house.'
Evie was beginning to like the sound of the Butler
family.
'And she goes to America where her son becomes a
politician, so she starts an American political dynasty.'
'Is this based on anything real?'
'No. It's a book by this American writer. It's a DWS/American production. The rest of it is set in Boston in the
twenties. I'd love to go on location with them there,' Rosie
said wistfully.
'I know.' Evie pulled off her gloves again. 'But you'll be
at college by then, won't you?'
'Yeah.' Rosie plucked at the lawn resentfully.
Evie held out her hand to her daughter. 'Come on, I'm
going to get cleaned up and then let's go off shopping. We
haven't done that in ages. Now that you're a working
woman, you need new clothes.'
Ace!' said Rosie, leaping up. 'I saw this amazing shirt in
French Connection. Could we go into town?'

Unlike her elder sister, Cara practically ran into work, she
was so keen to get there. Ewan hadn't answered his phone
when she'd rung the night before, so she was eager to see
him in the flesh and tell him about her Damascene
conversion. Not that she could explain that playing tonsil
hockey with some sexy Greek bloke had been the reason
she'd suddenly, blindingly, realised she loved him and that
she was as mad as a bicycle not to have realised it
properly before.
She wanted to tell him so much it almost hurt. She'd
been practising all night and all morning, beaming happily
even though she got up too late for breakfast, the bus was
delayed for ages by roadworks on Portobello Bridge and
she didn't even have time to grab a takeaway cappuccino on
her way to Yoshi Advertising.
Darling, darling Ewan - I'm sorry! It's my fault, you're
right. I shouldn't have hidden our relationship, it wasn't
fair to you. I've been a bit mixed up for a long time but
I'm going to sort myself out and please, please can we go
out again. Dinner, my treat?
So when she raced upstairs into the elegantly grey
copywriting department and found his chair empty and his
desk suspiciously clear, she got a shock. He couldn't have
left the company? she thought, stunned. He'd talked about
it but would he have gone without discussing it with her?
Of course he would. You don't discuss career decisions
with your ex-girlfriend, do you? Deflated, she leaned
against his desk miserably.
'Looking for Ewan?' his boss, Ken asked, poking his head
out of his office.
'Oh, er . . .' Cara stuttered. How did he know she was
looking for Ewan? She never came into copywriting.
'Didn't he tell you? He took a few days off Ken came
out of his office, Dunhills and lighter in hand to slope
outside for a quick cigarette. 'I thought he meant he was
going away with you, actually, but you know Ewan. If ever
there was a man for heading off when the mood takes him,
it's Ewan.'
Cara was speechless. Not because Ewan was known as
an impulsive creature: she knew that. But because Ken was
so convinced she and Ewan were an item. How did he
know? She'd never told anyone except Zoe. And Ewan
wasn't given to discussing his personal life in great detail.
'Well, er . . . thanks, Ken,' she muttered, heading for the
door. As she took the stairs up to her office two at a time,
Cara thought about something Ewan had said at the end of
their relationship, something cynical about how the
gimlet-eyed staff in Yoshi could almost tell when he was
wearing boxer shorts instead of underpants. 'They notice everything,' he'd emphasised, 'so don't kid yourself that
there's anything private in your life. They know but they
just aren't talking.'
He must have been right. Perhaps everybody already
knew she and Ewan were dating but hadn't said anything.
And in attempting to keep it quiet, she'd managed doubly
to insult him. The whole office knew, but could see that
Cara Fraser refused openly to acknowledge the relationship,
which meant she was ashamed of going out with
Ewan Walshe.
She winced. Nothing could be further from the truth,
but her behaviour had made everybody think so.
'Good morning, Cara,' squeaked Penny, Zoe's replacement,
in her high Cork-accented voice.
'What's good about it?' growled Cara, and immediately
regretted sounding so brusque. It wasn't Penny's fault that
Ewan was away and she couldn't make it all up to him.
'Sorry,' she added. 'Post-holiday blues.'
Penny's broad, plain face curved back into a smile.
Nobody could be further from the air-headed bimbo Cara
had expected to have to train thanks to Bernard's fondness
for nepotism. Penny was eager, clever, and if Cara
didn't already know she was the daughter of one of
Bernard's best friends, she'd never have discovered the
fact from Penny, who was determined to learn everything
the hard way.
And, as her computer literacy was non-existent, it really
was the hard way. A marvellous artist, she fell apart when
faced with a blank screen, a wacom tablet and the Adobe
illustrator package.
This morning, she seemed thrilled to have Cara back.
'It's been difficult dealing with Bernard,' she said diplomatically.
'He's been in twice already this morning looking
for you about a project he said he wanted done before you
went on holiday.'
'It's only five past nine,' said Cara in exasperation.
'I know,' Penny said uncomfortably. '! told him it wasn't
due until this Friday but he insisted you'd got the date
wrong . . .'
Cara, already deeply pissed off with the way the day
was progressing, felt her hackles rise another inch. So
Bernard wanted to play silly buggers, did he? Well, he
could think again. Cara Fraser had spent too much of her
life kowtowing to manipulative bastards who used her
own neuroses to control her. She was starting again from
scratch and Bernard Redmond was going to get the full
blast of her rage.
The phone rang. Cara snatched it up. 'Yes?' she hissed,
sounding as laid-back as a prison warden during a cellblock
riot.
'Cara, welcome back.' Bernard's voice was oily with
charm. 'I believe there's a misunderstanding between us
about when an assignment was to have been finished.
Penny says it's my mistake, so it must be. All the same,
even though it's my error, I'd be so grateful if you could
have it for me by, let's say, Wednesday evening.'
The wind taken out of her sails by his admission of guilt,
Cara could only gape at the phone. 'Er . . . yes, sure,' she
said eventually. Then she stopped. Because of his mistake,
she'd have to work late all week.
Actually, Bernard, it's not OK,' she announced suddenly.
She rooted around on her desk as she spoke for the hastily
scrawled memo he had given her about the job. The date
he wanted it by was the forthcoming Friday.
'I've got the original memo in my hand,' she said, voice
steady. 'It was to be ready by this Friday, not the previous
one. And it doesn't say much for our relationship if you
chose to believe my assistant and not me.'
Bernard, for once, was almost speechless.
'I can't imagine I'd have made such a mistake . . .' he
began.
'You did,' she interrupted. 'Luckily for you, Bernard, I
can manage to get it done for you on time, but we're really
going to have to discuss my future with this company if
you persist in treating me like some sort of idiot savant.
Penny is doing great work but I don't imagine she'd he able
to cope with this entire department if I left and, quite
frankly, I'm thinking of it.'
Bernard began to bluster. 'There's no need for that sort
of talk, Cara. You're a great addition to this firm . . .'
'Maybe you could start treating me like one, then,' she
said pleasantly. 'I'll be down later in the week for a
discussion on my package. 'Bye.'
She put the phone down slowly and looked at Penny.
'We're going to have to rush to get it done after all,
Pens,' she said. 'Bernard admitted it was his mistake but
we're going to have to work late.'
Delighted that Cara's outburst was over, Penny nodded
enthusiastically. 'I bought Danishes for us,' she added. 'In
case you needed a sugar boost.'
Cara relaxed. 'You're a mind reader, Pens. What if I nip
down to the kitchen and get us coffee and you get
breakfast ready?'

Ricky had just sneaked a large measure of Cara's litre of
previously unopened Spanish gin when she burst into the
kitchen that night at half-eight, exhausted after overtime on
bloody Bernard's project and desperate for something to eat.
Ricky attempted to stand in front of the bottle so she
wouldn't see it but it was no use.
'You bastard!' she roared. 'That's my bloody gin and you
know it. It wasn't even opened.'
Ricky fluttered his long, girlish eyelashes bashfully. 'It is
now.' he said, on the charm offensive. 'Can I pour you one?
You look like it's been a bad day at the office.'
'No, you bloody well can't,' she shrieked back at him.
'You are a fucking . . . fucking . . .' She couldn't think of
the word. Then she remembered. 'Parasite! You eat all our
food, drink all our drink, borrow our CDs and never give
them back. My Baz Luhrmann CD has the cover broken
since you got your paws on it, and it's a waste of time
buying biscuits round here because you snaffle them all,
you big savage. I'm sick of you!'
Swiping her bottle of gin away from him, she stormed
off in search of Phoebe to complain that, this time, Ricky
had Gone Too Far.
'Phoebe,' she roared dangerously. Her friend wasn't in
her bedroom so Cara, enraged, tried the bathroom where
she found her flatmate sitting on the floor looking greener
than the avocado bathroom suite. Phoebe's pretty moon
face was desolate and her eyes were red-rimmed, all the
eyeshadow rubbed away.
'Phoebe, what's wrong?' Cara asked, automatically forgetting
her temper at the sight of her friend in distress. It
was as though Phoebe had been holding in the tears until
she heard a comforting voice, when she knew she could let
go. As if Cara had turned on a switch, Phoebe's tears
flowed like Niagara.
'Oh, Cara,' she sobbed, 'you'll never believe it ... you'll
never believe it.'
Cara, squatting down on the floor, found herself leaning
on a pregnancy tester box, and could believe it all right.
'You're pregnant,' she said, matteroffactly.
'How could you tell?' wailed Phoebe. 'Is it that obvious?'
'No.' Cara held up the box to enlighten her.
'My family will kill me.' Phoebe was sobbing heavily
now.
Cara hugged her, wishing she could pass on some of her
own strength. 'They won't. And even if they do, I'm here, I'll help you.'
'Thank you,' Phoebe cried.
'Does Ricky know?'
The sobbing grew louder.
'Does he?'
'I can't tell him,' Phoebe said, between giant, heaving
sobs. 'He's stopped working to go back to college - he can't
afford a baby.'
'He's given up his job?' asked Cara, aghast.
'He's given in his notice. He's going to take a month off
to travel at the end of the summer and then go to college.'
Briefly, Cara closed her eyes, thinking of what she'd like
to do with Ricky. Travel would certainly come into it:
travel out the window after his rear end had connected
with her Doc Marten boot.
'He doesn't know why you're in here?' she asked
Phoebe gently.
Phoebe shook her head.
'You don't want to tell him right now?' Cara continued.
Phoebe shook her head frenziedly. 'Never.'
'I'll get rid of him then and we'll talk.
'Phoebe's sick,' she announced blandly to Ricky. 'She's
gone to bed. I think it's one of those vicious twenty-four
hour bugs that give you the runs the whole time,' she
added, interested to sec if the thought of hours glued to
the loo would put Ricky off saying goodnight to his
beloved.
He took a step backwards. 'Jesus, I hate that! I'm oil. Tell
her I'll see her tomorrow.'
He was gone in a flash, leaving behind the crumbs of a
packet of fig rolls and several dirty dishes in the sink. Cara
made a mental note to demand fig roll money off him the
next time he turned up.
She took the gin, which she'd brought back from the
bathroom on the grounds that gin mightn't be good for
someone in Phoebe's condition, poured herself a huge one,
added tonic and took a giant, refreshing slug. Ricky had
been right: it had been a tough day at the office, but
nothing was tougher than what she and Phoebs were going
to have to deal with now. And Ricky hadn't a bloody clue.
At that moment, Cara hated Phoebe's feckless boyfriend
more than anyone else in the world for what he was doing
to her dear, kind friend. Phoebe was such an innocent, she
hadn't an enemy in the world and wouldn't squash a
spider if she could get some braver soul to pick it up and
put it outside the door. She didn't deserve insensitive,
brainless Ricky Nobody did.
Cara boiled the kettle, quickly made a cup of weak,
sugarless tea, the way Phoebe liked it, and took it and her
mega-gin back to the bathroom. It was going to be a long
night, she just knew it.

Olivia sat in her dressing room opening fan mail. She still
got an enormous thrill at the sight of the kind, encouraging
letters she got from fans of her slot on the programme, and
despite the length of time it took to reply to each one
personally, she did it.
Mind you, there were a few letter writers who weren't
quite so kind or encouraging. They weren't sane either, she
felt. 'Why would anyone want to send a letter like that?'
she gasped to Kevin the first day she received one such
letter, holding the offending sheet of paper between the
tips of one finger and her thumb as if it was contagious.
'Ooh, give us a look.' Kevin read the letter, laughing
merrily at the twisted viewer who said he thought Olivia
had lovely breasts, and would she send him a pair of her
knickers in the post? Worn, of course. 'They all want knickers,
those pervie guys. I don't know why,' he said, wiping his
eyes with mirth.
'Don't touch your face after holding that horrible
letter!' Olivia shuddered, washing her hands feverishly in
the tiny handbasin. 'You don't know what you'd get.' She
shivered, shocked at the thought that there was anyone
out there who'd watch her cookery slot, concentrating on
her breasts instead of her cooking. It was horrible, horrible.
Kevin stuck the letter and its envelope in a page of his
A-4 notebook, obediently scrubbed his hands and patted
Olivia's arm comfortingly.
'Olivia honey, all the personalities get the odd pervie
letter. It's the price of fame, I'm afraid. I'll give this to the
station's security office because this particular gobshite has
included his address, so the security people will pass the
details on to the police. But don't worry, most of these
blokes are harmless.'
Olivia didn't look convinced.
'Probably forgot to take his tablets that morning, probably
lives with his mother and the nearest thing he gets to
a woman is watching you in the morning while Mummy
irons his Y-fronts before he puts them on.'
'Ugh! That's worse.' She was sickened by the vivid
picture Kevin had painted.
'I can get someone else to open your letters if you want,'
he offered kindly.
Olivia shook her head. 'I should do them myself
'Nancy might volunteer to open yours,' Kevin added innocently. He always knew how to make Olivia laugh- It
was no great secret that Nancy Roberts was enraged that
Olivia now got practically as much fan mail as she did. It'd
kill Nancy to have to open Olivia's letters. It already killed
her that Olivia's slot had been extended to four days a
week because it was so popular with viewers. Nancy had
been queen of the Wake Up Morning Show for years and it
was entirely possible that she'd stab any person who took
that popularity away from her.
Olivia slapped Kevin gently on the arm. 'Brat!' she said.
'Ooh, beat me, you sadist,' he squealed in a put-on
falsetto. They both cracked up laughing.
'You're a head case, Kevin, do you know that?' Olivia
said fondly.
'Not as bad as Nancy.' He smirked. 'She loves getting
the pervie letters because she likes the idea that there are
people out there who fantasise about her knickers. Mind
you, there can't be many of them out there and you'd
need an enormous envelope to send one of her used pairs
in the post . . .'
Olivia grinned at the thought of how hilarious Kevin was
on the subject of La Roberts. He loathed every over
bleached, cosseted hair on her head, and the feeling was
entirely mutual. Unfortunately, since Kevin now worked so
closely with Olivia, he was also on Nancy's hit list.
'I'd like to see the bitch try and get me fired,' he'd said
bravely when he'd had too many post-show glasses of wine
in hospitality. 'I'd rip her hair extensions out by the roots!'
But Olivia was suffering too.
In the four months she had been appearing on Nancy's
show, the presenter's demeanour towards her had gone
from chill-cabinet temperature to deep freeze. These days,
Olivia was lucky to get a frosty 'hello' from Nancy at
production meetings, and when Olivia had suggestions for
the programme, there was always a dismissive snort from
Nancy's end of the meeting table. But she'd stopped being
outright nasty - mainly because Olivia had been winning
the battle of the ratings and consequently had Linda Byrne
firmly on her side, protecting the show's new star.
When Nancy's barbed comments began to earn her a
sharp 'Is that helpful, Nancy?' or 'If you're not interested,
would you like to skip the meeting?' from Linda, she soon
kept her bitchy little asides to herself. Except on the set
when there was nobody else around.
'Shimmery fabrics come up very tarty on screen.' Nancy
would hiss nastily just before the cameras rolled when the
two women were forced to stand side by side in the onset
kitchen.
'Really?' Olivia would reply, smiling serenely for the
camera in her shimmery aquamarine blouse, before
launching into her spiel. Nancy didn't bother her. After
years of confidence-sapping carping from Stephen, who
could take the paint off a door with his remarks, childish
bitching from a blowsy television hostess just rolled off
Olivia like water off a duck's back. She could cope with
Nancy's jealousy. Just about. As she'd given up teaching for
a year to concentrate on her TV career, she had to!
Now Olivia ripped open another envelope with the
deadly-looking silver filigree letter opener Max had given
her: 'In case you're in danger of being stabbed in the back
and need to reciprocate,' he'd said wickedly in the letter
that accompanied his gift.
He knew what he was talking about when it came to the
world of television, Olivia thought with amusement, every
time she used his present.
She'd opened twenty letters and had begun writing short
notes on her Klimt-decorated notelets when Linda stuck
her head round the door.
'Great, you're here. I thought you might have gone
home after the show.'
'My daughter's being taken to a birthday party today by
her best friend's mum and because I did the last bouncy
castle duty, I'm reprieved today,' Olivia explained.
Linda, mother of three and a woman who knew as much
about childcare as any working woman, nodded knowingly.
'So you're free for lunch?'
'Sure.'
Lunch was in the canteen, a glass-fronted place where
few of the staff felt inclined to linger too long after they'd
finished eating. Olivia picked up a brown bap filled with
tuna and decided she'd have some rosehip tea for a change.
She was dunking her teabag by the string when Linda
plonked her own tray down on the table. The heaped plate
of chips and sausages smelled wonderful.
'I know,' she said, already looking guilty. 'I can't believe
I'm having lunch with the cookery expert and I'm eating
motorway cuisine. But I like chips and I adore sausages.
And Nancy's driving me nuts so I need a carbohydrate fix!'
Olivia chose to ignore the reference to Nancy. 'Linda,'
she remonstrated, 'one of my favourite treats is Cheddar
cheese cooked in the microwave on top of cream crackers.
I'm not Delia Smith, you know. I don't go home and spend
three hours making my own linguine. Cookery on TV is
half reality and half wishful thinking, you know that. In the
real world, we all go home and have Marks & Sparks
chicken tikka masala. And that's on the nights when we
feel creative!'
Linda smiled. 'I always forget how normal you are,
Olivia. I'm so used to dealing with these damn' prima
donnas who let on they spend hours making their own
bloody pesto sauce.'
'I'd love to do that,' Olivia confessed, 'but you need an
awful lot of basil and two apartment window boxes aren't
nearly big enough to grow a bucket of the stuff!' She
leaned over and grabbed a chip. 'I love chips too,' she.
added. 'I wish people realised that you can love cooking
and still think beans on toast is a fabulous meal.'
Her tuna fish bap tasted unappetising after one of
Linda's chips so she stole a few more.
'Please do,' said Linda, shoving the plate in Olivia's
direction. 'I'm gaining weight at a fierce rate. It's Nancy,
she's doing my head in. So I go home and even when Des
is away on business, I open a bottle of wine for myself once
the kids are in bed, cook an entire pizza and pig out. It can't be good.'
'Join the club.' Olivia took another chip.
'What are you talking about?' said Linda. 'You skinny
cow.'
Olivia took a sausage this time. 'Usually I'm really thin
when I'm stressed,' she explained, 'because I can't eat. But
even though I'm stressed up to my eyeballs right now, I'm
as heavy as I've ever been because I eat so much
convenience food.'
Linda groaned. 'So says the woman who weighs about
eight stone in her heaviest clothes. Anyway,' she continued,
'I didn't bring you here to slag you off for being sickeningly, naturally slim.' She put down her fork. 'You're
seriously interested in a career in television, aren't you?'
This was a subject Olivia had given a lot of thought to,
particularly when she'd had to decide whether or not to
give up teaching in order to fulfil her four days at the
station. She'd compromised by taking the rest of the year
off from teaching with an agreement to take up where
she'd left off if her television career didn't pan out. It
had been a tough decision to make. The other teachers
had been gratifyingly sorry to see her go, while the pupils - apart from Cheryl Dennis - had moaned that the
school's only TV star was leaving.
'Will you come back and talk to us when you're really
famous?' they'd begged cheekily on her final day, when
they'd produced Good Luck cards and a surprising number
of autograph books for her to sign.
'You never liked me signing anything in the past,' Olivia
joked, 'especially the section on your homework notebooks
when I had to ask your parents how the dog managed to
eat your homework five times in a row.' She missed the
kids, Olivia realised. Teaching was very fulfilling - sometimes.
Linda
was waiting for an answer. Olivia decided to give
it to her. 'Yes,' she said, grasping the bull by the horns. She was serious about TV.
'Great, because we've got a marvellous idea for a show
for you but I wanted to sound you out first before Paul
Reddin brought you in for the serious talk.'
'A show for me?' asked Olivia, astonished.
'Don't look so shocked,' Linda said. "You're fantastic on
the screen, Olivia, you must know that. Everybody's
talking about you. We want to hold on to our discovery,
that's all.'
'Your discovery?' Olivia said, aware she was sounding
spectacularly stupid but still feeling a little bewildered by
the conversation. Was Linda asking her if she'd like a
programme of her own or was she imagining it?
'If we don't sign you up, somebody else will. Ever since
you got that terrific review in the Sunday World, people
haven't stopped talking about you.'
Olivia grinned. It had been a wonderful piece written by
an obviously besotted male reviewer: 'The only thing worth
watching on the Wake Up Morning Show is the luminous
Olivia de Were, a natural TV performer who is singlehandedly
responsible for making thousands of previously cookery-shy
men take an interest in doing things with garlic and onions.
Compared to the formulaic wittering of the ceramic-faced
Nancy Roberts, Ms de Vere's performances are always fresh,
funny and entertaining.'
I thought we were going to have to send Nancy into
John of Gods to recover when she read that,' Linda said,
referring to a private hospital where people went to be
treated for nervous breakdowns. 'She went stone mad.'
Olivia bit her lip so she wouldn't laugh. "I didn't know
they did Advanced Jealousy Therapy in John of Gods,' she
said finally, giving up on her attempts to stop laughing.
'Don't laugh,' said Linda, doing just that herself. 'Nancy
rang me at home on the Sunday insisting we fire you.'
'Really?' Olivia stopped laughing.
'It's OK, I told her you were far too important to the
show and that if she had a problem with that, she could
talk to Paul Reddin about it.'
'Wow!' Impressed, Olivia drank some rosehip tea.
'You are important to us, too important to let Nancy's
ego ruin things.'
'Was she the reason the last cookery expert left?' Olivia inquired slyly.
'What do you think?' whispered Linda, looking around
in case anyone was listening. The walls weren't the only
things with cars in the station canteen. 'She was a brunette
version of Nancy but with a smaller waist and bigger
boobs. Theo loved her and so did we, therefore Nancy was
determined she'd get the boot.'
Olivia chuckled. 'Tell me,' she said, 'under the circumstances,
how the hell did I keep my job?'
'Didn't you know?' The producer looked surprised.
'Max Stewart told Paul he knew you'd be wonderful and to
keep Nancy on a long leash until you'd found your feet.'
'Max!'

'You didn't know? I sort of thought you and he were . . .
you know.' Linda looked a bit embarrassed. 'Well, you said
you were separated and Max was so interested in your
career and all that.'
'Nothing like it!' Olivia said, astonished. 'Max is just a
friend. He's actually crazy about my best friend, to be
honest, although neither of them seems capable of doing
anything about it. That's all! Wasn't it kind of him to speak
to Paul, though?'
'Jeez, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean anything.' Linda's voice
was down to a mortified whisper now. 'It's just that it was
because you'd been having ... er ..."
'Difficulties?' supplied Olivia wryly.
'Sorry.' Linda looked very embarrassed. 'Sorry for thinking
you and Max were an item.' She paused. 'I'm making
an awful hash of this, but I feel that I have to explain, it's
only fair. If you do decide to take on the new show, you'll
have to be ready for some sort of intrusion into your
private life. People will be interested in everything about
you. Some journalists want to know everything about you,
from what you eat for breakfast to whom you're sleeping
with. They like "in-depth" interviews and it's real soul
baring stuff. They won't touch you if you don't agree to
tell all.
'They're not all like that, of course. Plenty of papers are
happy with a ten-minute interview and a couple of glamorous
photos, but the point is, you've got to be ready for
the worst.'
'You mean that some people will want to know if I'm
married, and to whom, and why we're separated?'
'Exactly.'
Olivia thought about it. She and Stephen had actually
been getting on quite well since the separation. He'd
moved into a small apartment close by in Booterstown and
seemed eager to go to the marriage guidance counsellor
with her, despite storming out of the first session. Olivia
had been horrified but the counsellor, Myra, had been
utterly unfazed.
'Happens all the time, dear,' she'd said calmly, handing
her tearful newest client the big box of tissues she kept on
the desk. 'I've seen much worse.'
Olivia's mind had boggled. She couldn't imagine anything
worse than a furious man practically breaking a chair
and yelling he wasn't having some spinsterish old bag
telling him how to behave with his wife. But Myra had
taken the entire thing with equanimity and had welcomed
a subdued Stephen back the next time with a serene smile
on her face.
Since then, progress had been slow but they were getting
there. Like peeling away layers of old wallpaper, uncovering
the problems in their marriage was a painstaking process
and Olivia didn't know how they'd have managed without
Myra, who had apparently seen it all and then some.
Thanks to her, they were learning new ways to talk to each
other without yelling or accusing each other of terrible
things. These frank, utterly honest conversations had been
strange at first: like hearing Stephen talk about insecurities
Olivia didn't know he possessed. Even stranger had been
discussing things she'd bottled up for years. She didn't
particularly want to discuss any of this with a journalist.
But at least she wasn't having a secret fling with Max
Stewart to muddy the publicity waters. She resolved to
thank him for his kindness in keeping Nancy off her back.
'Would they be very interested in all that personal
stuff?' she asked Linda, who was toying with her plastic
cup and looking as if she wished she'd never brought the
whole subject up.
'Maybe, maybe not,' she replied vaguely. 'You're not
Pamela Anderson, but then you are a beautiful blonde
woman and people will want to know who the significant
other in your life is.'
'Maybe I should pretend I'm a lesbian,' Olivia said with
a grin.
'Now that,' said Linda, 'would really sell papers. If you
came out, maybe poor old Theo would have the courage
to. Poor love keeps insisting that the public aren't able for
his sexuality and always has a model on his arm for every
posh party. People love him, nobody cares whether he's
gay or not. Anyway,' she got back to the point, 'I'm just
warning you now, so you can make an informed decision.
We really want you to do this show - I can't breathe a
word more about it until we know you're interested - but
I think you need to know what it'll entail.'
'Would it mean keeping on the morning show too?'
Olivia asked.
'Hell, yes. We couldn't let you go from that. You're a
star.'

Everyone had advice for her.
Max Stewart's was: 'Get an agent.'
Evie advised Olivia to say she'd have to think about
the offer and would get back to them in a week.
'Jumping right in would look too eager,' she said thoughtfully.
'Make them wait. You're a professional woman now,
you don't make rash decisions. Think how delighted
they'll be and how much money they'll offer you when
you say "yes"!'
Sybil de Were said a killer accountant and a hard-as-nails
lawyer were vital. 'Those bastards will screw you out of
every penny,' she screeched down the phone, obviously
well stuck into the Scotch. 'If your father and I had had
any sense and had accountants looking after our money
instead of that lying little runt of a bank manager, we'd be
rich today!'
Olivia knew it wouldn't be wise to point out that her
parents' kindly bank manager had kept the wolf from the
de Were door on many occasions and that Leslie and
Sybil's own profligacy was the only thing responsible for
their financial state. Scotch and the bitter truth wasn't a
combination her mother was fond of
The only person who didn't have any advice for her was
Stephen, the very one who once could have been relied
upon to dole out shovelfuls of unasked-for opinions.
'It's your career, Olivia,' he said quietly when she told
him as they drank coffee in McDonald's on a shared day
out with Sasha.
Myra had suggested the trip: 'There's no point going to
marriage counselling if you never spend time together to
see if it's working,' she said brusquely, recommending time
spent as a family as well as time spent as a couple.
'I don't want to force you to do what I think is right. I've
done enough of that,' he added ruefully. 'Controlling
behaviour is not what you need right now.'
'You sound like Myra,' Olivia said with amusement.
The guarded expression went from Stephen's face.
'Yeah, well, it's an effort sometimes to speak like a
psychiatrist,' he said candidly. 'I know what I should say
but I'm just about to launch into one of my "This is the
correct way!" speeches when I remember I'm not Field
Marshall MacKenzie anymore. It's a hard habit to break.
When controlling behaviour works for you, you keep on
doing it. It did work for me. I could control you, Sasha,
people I worked with. I was in charge, I was the dominant
person.' His eyes took on a faraway look. 'Stopping isn't
easy. It's like learning to speak a different language.'
'So your counsellor helps?' Olivia asked. It was the first
time she'd referred to the therapist Stephen was seeing on
his own. She'd been astonished and thrilled when he'd
obliquely told her about it. The fact that he'd taken her
seriously gave her real hope for their future.
He nodded, watching Sasha playing with the toy from
her Happy Meal. 'Sort of. I still think I'm one of those
people, with some, I don't know . . .' he paused, searching
for the right word '. . . darkness inside me. I don't know
why and it wasn't fair to you. I only hope I can deal with it
and that you come back to me. Sorry.' he looked at her,
suddenly haggard. "I wasn't supposed to say that,'
He'd looked so desperate that Olivia nearly let her
defences down and said, Yes, come back and live with us.
But she couldn't. It had all been too hard, too painful.
She'd cried herself to sleep too many nights, wondering if
she'd destroyed her marriage to give in to an impulse now.
Stephen couldn't come back until they were all healed,
all ready, otherwise they'd be back at square one in a year.
'You shouldn't,' she said softly. 'But I understand why
you did. We just need to give it a little longer . . .'
Their eyes met. He stretched across the table, over the
tray littered with empty burger boxes, and took her hand
in his. 'I can wait,' he said fiercely. 'You're so different now
- so confident, so beautiful - that I get scared you'll meet
someone else, someone who doesn't need fucking therapy
so he doesn't scream at his own kid.'
Olivia glared at him. 'Language!' she hissed, swivelling
her eyeballs to where Sasha sat talking quietly to herself
and her new toy.
'Sorry. A father who needs therapy so he doesn't swear
in front of his kid,' Stephen amended apologetically. He
held her hand tightly, his voice almost a whisper. 'I don't
care what you do so long as I've got you, Olivia, don't you
understand? I love you. Please don't forget that or me.'
With her other hand, she softly stroked the corded veins
in his hand.
'I'm not interested in anyone else, Stephen. I never was.
It's always been you, but it has to be right. If what we have
is worth having, then we've got to fight for it.'
He nodded. It was then she realised that his eyes were
full of tears. Hard man Stephen MacKenzie was crying in
McDonald's in full view of the genera! public. It was
unbelievable, incredible. Promising.
Olivia beamed at her husband. They were both changing,
thank God.

Lorraine flicked through The Star aimlessly, ignoring most
of the news. She paused at a picture of a glamorous
woman in a glittery dress and sighed.
'Wouldn't you love to be going to parties and premieres
every night of the week?' she said.
Evie, spending her lunch hour laboriously ticking off
acceptances in her wedding notebook, murmured yes in
response.
'I mean, look at this dress. It probably cost two grand
and I bet she didn't have to pay for it. Designers give
people like Mia Koen dresses whenever they want them
just for the thrill of having her wear their outfit in the . . .
news,' she added, as Evie whipped the paper from her,
scanning the photo.
How could any normal woman compete with that? she
thought furiously. Mia, clad in a bum-skimming sequinned
number that dipped so low in the front that the decollete
nearly met the hemline coming the other way, was pictured
on the arm of a famous singer leaving a private party
at the Merrion Hotel. Her chestnut hair was in artless
ripples around her slender shoulders and she was laughing, seemingly unaware she was being photographed. Cow!
Evie bet that woman could sense a photographer at live
hundred yards.
Staring at the photo as it she wanted to see every dot
individually, Evie searched for Max. There were people
behind Mia but none of them looked like a tall man with
strong shoulders and a jaw that could chisel marble.
He had to be there. Rosie had said he was back in
Dublin and although Evie would have loved to have asked
a million questions about him, she daren't. It would kill
her to learn that he and Mia were together, the glittering
couple to beat all glittering couples: the successful producer
and the woman he'd made into a star.
'She's beautiful all right,' sniffed Lorraine. 'But I don't
like her. Po-faced, if you ask me.'
'Smug is the word I'd have used,' Evie said bitterly.
Smug because she had everything in the world; everything
Evie wanted.
The intercom on the phone buzzed. It was Nicky
Wentworth, the dazzling blond new boss who sent
Lorraine and most of the female staff into spasms of
delight just by speaking in his husky Northern accent.
'Evie, I know it's your break but could you come into
my office for a wee minute?'
Lorraine stuck out her tongue suggestively and pretended
to pant like an over-heated dog. 'Lucky Evie,' she
gasped. 'If he asked me into the office for a wee minute on
my lunchbreak, I'd gallop in.'
'Slapper,' retorted Evie, sticking her tongue out in retaliation.
'I'm not interested in him.'
'Then you're the only one who isn't,' sighed Lorraine
dreamily.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Scowling at her monitor, Cara repositioned Saturn until it
was the third planet from the sun and rearranged a couple
of stars as ordered. She didn't see why she had to mess
with the solar system simply because the creative director
wanted 'that planet with the rings' nearer the front of the
ad. In a fit of wickedness, she put Earth closest to the sun
and vowed that if any astronomer complained about this
fatal and reckless rearrangement of the solar system for a
washing machine advert, she wasn't taking the blame. The
creative director, a man so obsessed with the world of
advertising that he genuinely thought the Milky Way was a
chocolate bar, could take the rap.
Intent on the job in hand, she heard the door to the
office swing open but didn't turn around. 'I hope you've
bought supplies, Penny,' she grumbled. 'I could murder
some crisps.'
'No, but I could offer you dinner later if you're that
ravenous,' said a familiar voice.
Cara dropped her electronic pen in shock and whirled
around to see Ewan lounging against the door jamb, looking
effortlessly cool and relaxed even in the humid atmosphere
of her non-air-conditioned eyrie. His green eyes glowed like
tourmalines in a face tanned caramel by the sun and his
dark curly hair was longer than ever, brushing the collar of
the white linen shirt he wore loose over khaki combats.
Like a round-the-world traveller who'd just wandered back
after trekking leisurely around Morocco, he looked so
laid-back he was practically horizontal.
'Hi,' she said, flustered and wishing she'd had some
warning he was back. Here he was looking wonderful after
two weeks away and she was greasy-haired and hollow
eyed from yet another late night comforting Phoebe. And,
she was wearing a desperate faded brown T-shirt over her
jeans because she'd been too busy to do any of her holiday
washing. It was too small, had a gaping hole under one
armpit and looked like something Oxfam wouldn't allow
in the shop.
'Have a nice holiday?' she asked.
'Great. I went to Tunisia.' He didn't move, just watched
her with those intense eyes. 'And you?'
'Wonderful, marvellous. We had great weather in Spain
and I actually ended up lying in the sun, even though you
know I'm not the greatest sunbather in the world,' she rattled
on, trying to fill up his meaningful silence with words. She
knew she should say something but she didn't know how.
Despite her nervous prattling, she was at a loss for words.
'Ken said you were looking for me at the beginning of
the week?'
'Yeah, I wanted to say hello . . . No.' Cara went over to
him. She had to say this and there was no point waiting
until she was all dolled up like a dog's dinner with freshly
washed hair to do it. 'It was more than that.' The words
tumbled out: "I wanted to tell you that I was crazy about
you and that I was so sorry for the way I hurt you. Please
let's try again?'
They were practically the same height and as she stood
just feet away from Ewan, Cara searched his face for a sign
that he understood, that he wanted her back.
For an agonising few moments he didn't say a word. Then,
his hands were around her waist, his mouth was on hers and
they were kissing, melting together frantically as if they
couldn't believe this incredible thing was happening.
'Oh, Ewan, I've missed you so much, I've been so
stupid!' cried Cara, her mouth buried in his hair while his
blazed a white hot trail along her neck.
'Me too, Cara,' he said hoarsely.
'I wanted to tell you on Monday. I've thought about it all
the time I was away, that it was all my fault with my stupid
neuroses. I mean, who the hell does it matter to that we're
going out with each other?'
'I know.' His lips were at her collarbone now, devouring
her.
'There was a reason, you know,' Cara said, feeling the
desire leaping in her belly like a salmon leaping upstream.
'A stupid reason but still a reason. I want to tell you about
it. It happened when I was at college and I never let myself
get over it.'
He stopped kissing her, his face anxious. 'What happened
in college?'
His mouth was dark from being bruised against hers and
his pupils were huge with hunger, mirroring her own eyes
Suddenly, Cara decided that she'd tell him later. They
had all the time in the world.
'We'll talk about it tonight,' she said, bringing her mouth
down on his, 'in bed.'
When Penny climbed the stairs to the graphic design
department a few minutes later, carefully carrying two
mugs of tea and a Kit-kat, she found her mentor wrapped
in a heated clinch with someone who looked like that
lovely Ewan Walshe from copywriting. Penny thought it
was him but you couldn't be sure because most of his face
was buried in Cara's Tshirt.
As quietly as she could, she shut the door, went back
down to the halfway step and unwrapped the Kit-kat. She
wished she looked exotic and dramatic like Cara. Those
cheekbones, the huge, reddened mouth and the rippling
black hair made her stand out. Men were always looking at
her admiringly when they went out for lunch together.
Penny longed for men to look at her like that: hungrily yet
cautiously, as if Cara's fierce hazel eyes fascinated yet
frightened them in equal measures.
Penny finished the Kit-kat. If reincarnation worked, she
was putting her name down for a Cara Fraser body and
face, definitely.

Mary Todd looked uneasy. Evie tried not to notice. Her
future mother-in-law always looked uneasy.
'Do you think we'd be able to look after that big garden?'
Mary asked fearfully, as if the property had several, sprawling
acres at the back instead of a long, narrow wilderness
even Evie's short legs could cross in fifteen large steps.
'Of course,' Evie said impatiently, determined that whoever
did look after the garden, it wouldn't be her. Then,
seeing Mary's pinched little face, felt sorry for sounding
snappy and put an arm around the older woman. 'It'll be
fun, Mary,' she said. 'Imagine it all tidied up with a bit of
lawn there and some nice garden loungers where we could
sit on sunny days. Herbs maybe, by the patio, so the smell
would hit us and some plants in patio tubs.'
Mary didn't look convinced. A fragile seventy year old,
she was in constant fear of crooked paving stones and wet
leaves in case she fell and broke something. The patio in
the property she and Evie were viewing had more uneven
paving stones than even ones. It'd all have to be ripped up
and relaid if Mary was ever to sit outside with any degree
of confidence.
Evie thought of how Rosie carelessly left magazines,
tennis rackets and school bags abandoned on the floor and
on every step of the stairs at home and wondered how
Mary would fare if they were all living in the same house.
This place was certainly big enough for the four of
them: the ground-floor annexe had one bedroom, a small
sitting room and shower room, while the rest of the house
had four bedrooms, a sitting room-cum-dining room, two
bathrooms and a big kitchen. Large and therefore expensive,
it was only within their price bracket because Mary,
Simon and Evie were all going to contribute money
towards its purchase. It was also desperately rundown and
needed huge amounts of renovation. Looking at the prewar
decoration, Evie gloomily predicted a lifetime of
stripping wallpaper and sanding down wood.
'I don't know if it's right,' Mary said tremulously. 'I
know Simon said I'd like it but I'm not sure . . .'
Evie cursed Simon and the inevitable meeting which
meant she was the one using up her precious half-day off
showing his mother around the latest house that was, 'Just
perfect for us, Evie"!'
'Mary, we've all got to love it,' she said wearily. 'Don't
worry your head about it if you don't. Your opinion is just
as valid as Simon's. He can just find another house.'
'But with the wedding only two weeks away, we'll have
to get it sorted before you go away to Greece,' Mary said,
twisting the handles of her beloved patent handbag with
nerves.
'Not to worry if we don't,' Evie said with false cheeriness.
'We'll manage until later in the year. Houses will be
cheaper in the autumn, anyway.'
She settled Mary in the passenger seat, closed the door
and closed her eyes. She felt totally frazzled. And the day
wasn't over yet. The hotel wanted to see her about some
detail to do with the banqueting hall where she and Simon
were holding the reception. The wedding co-ordinator had
been strangely vague on the phone, muttering about 'wanting
to make extra sure everything's perfect'. Which meant another two hours gone driving into the city centre and
back.
With Mary installed in The Duchess of Ormond hotel's
airy reception sipping coffee, Evie followed the wedding
co-ordinator upstairs to the banqueting hall where bad
news was waiting.
A fire had damaged the very room Evie and Simon had
booked, the prettiest room with a terrace where the guests
could gaze out over the Dublin skyline and sip drinks
surrounded by Italian urns overflowing with white, star
shaped flowers. The only other option was the biggest
banqueting room, twice the size, very grand, but sadly a lot
too big for the small number of guests at the Fraser/Todd
nuptials.
'We are so terribly, terribly sorry,' the wedding
co-ordinator apologised for about the eighth time in a row.
'We know you had your heart set on the Leinster Suite but
the Munster one is very nice and my superior says we'll
only charge you half the corkage on the wine by way of
making things up to you.'
Evie gazed around the enormous, icy blue Munster Suite
and thought of how her guests would rattle around in it
like the last few matches in a box. Very formal, it wasn't
anywhere near as nice as the cosy yellow room with the
elegant cornices picked out in gold and the marigold
coloured brocade curtains that fell in graceful swags to the
polished wooden floor.
'There's nothing else we can do,' the wedding
co-ordinator said desperately, seeing the bleak look on
Evie's face. He could hardly know that she wasn't just thinking about the venue for her wedding. That she was,
instead, thinking that this was just another terrible omen
for a day that seemed doomed.
'It's fine,' Evie said, switching on to automatic pilot.
She decided not to tell Mary about the Munster Suite
disaster. If she had, they'd have had to rent a hotel room so
Mary could lie down for an hour and get over the shock. It
was hard to believe that Simon's mother wasn't that much
older than Vida. She was so vibrant and beautiful, loved
life and embraced it with a passion. She wouldn't have
dreamed of moving into a granny flat with Max and his
new bride: if she was on her own at Mary's age, she'd
probably book herself on a cruise, learn the Lambada,
collect a whole range of men friends to take her out to
dinner and decide to do a computer course.
'Problems?' asked Mary, hands fluttering nervously
about her bosom when Evie came to collect her.
'Nothing,' she lied easily.
She couldn't lie to Simon. With his mother installed in
his dining room, waiting for the first course of the meal Evie
had flung together, she broke it to him. Simon, just home
from work, took his glasses off and spent three minutes
massaging the bridge of his nose tensely afterwards.
'This is too much to cope with,' he said, eyes blinking
myopically without his glasses. 'Too much.'
His left hand began to flutter just like his mother's. Up
and down, up and down. Just like Mary's. Evie stared at it
in alarm. Had he done that before? Why had she never
noticed it until now?
'Don't panic,' she said. 'It's only a room, Simon. It's not
the end of the world.'
'I'm so stressed at the minute,' he said, voice rising.
His hand stopped fluttering and began to run through
his sandy hair, fluffing it absently into mad little tufts. 'First
my mother doesn't like the perfect house - and it was perfect. Now this. I don't think I can take any more.'
You and me both, Evie thought, a little hysterically.
'Simon,' she said, 'do you think we could have a bottle
of wine with dinner? I could do with a drink.'
'Drink isn't the answer,' he answered in a shrill voice.
'I'll have a sherry then,' she said grimly.
When Simon went inside to - stupidly, in Evie's
opinion - tell his mother about the crisis with the
reception room, Evie drained her sherry and had another,
this one filled to the brim instead of halfway up the
Waterford crystal port glass.
This is terrible, she told herself, sticking a knife into the
potatoes to see if they were boiled. She was turning into a
lush. She was the one who usually gave out to Cara for
drinking too much, and in the past month she'd been
plastered once and consumed at least six glasses of wine on
her hen night.
Like every other time she thought about that night, Evie
felt her legs weaken at the memory of making love with
Max. She couldn't help it: it was an automatic reaction, the
same way she smiled when she saw a baby or gasped at the
very thought of a rat. Max, Max, Max. He still ran through
her head like Morse code, hanging out the same word over
and over again.
Simon came into the kitchen and leaned over the
saucepan, steaming up his glasses immediately. Would he
ever learn not to do that? Evie stifled the urge to thump
him. He irritated the hell out of her much of the time. And
she was going to marry him in two weeks and spend the
rest of her life with him, being irritated. Her legs felt weak
again and this time, it wasn't from thinking about Max.
'Here.' She handed Simon two plates filled with the
tomato and feta cheese salad she'd made for the first course. She hadn't bothered washing the iceberg lettuce.
No doubt Mary would discover half a slug in hers. 'Take
these in, Simon, I'll be right behind you.'
Mary decided to stay at Simon's that night, which meant
that Evie couldn't. It was a blessing in disguise, she knew,
because she wasn't in the mood for a passionate encounter
with her fiance. Yet she was peeved that his mother's
presence meant her staying over was out of the question.
'It's not as if we'd be having a one-night stand,' she said
caustically. 'We're engaged to be married, Simon. We're not
going to be at it like knives while she watches Antiques
Roadshow.'
'I know, but my mother is very old-fashioned, very set in
her ways.'
Like her son, Evie reflected.

For Olivia's dinner party on Saturday, Cara brought two
bottles of red wine, strawberry cheesecake from the delicatessen
- and Phoebe.
'I couldn't leave her at home,' she whispered to Olivia,
briefly explaining the story as they stowed Cara's cheesecake
in the fridge.
'You had to bring her, poor child,' Olivia said, determined
to make Phoebe feel utterly at home.
'Now,' she said, arriving back in the sitting room with
wine, mineral water and fruit juice, 'who wants what? I
know you probably want wine, Cara,' she added teasingly
'But I'm on the fruit juice tonight because I've a busy day
tomorrow.'
'Me too,' said Phoebe, seizing the excuse to avoid alcohol.
'Wonderful,' said Olivia cosily, 'your bold best friend
here often makes me feel like a boring old dear if I don't
get pissed with her. I love fruit juice and I'm not much of a
drinker.'
Phoebe smiled and accepted a glass of juice. When she
wasn't looking, Cara shot Olivia a deeply grateful look.
Vida arrived with a fragrant bunch of Stargazer lillies,
several bottles of Frascati and some Amaretti biscuits. 'I felt
in an Italian mood,' she said gaily, kissing Olivia.
'Congratulations on your new show, darling,' she added.
'I want to hear all about it. Cara, hello. This must be your
flatmate, Phoebe? Hello, dear. Cara's always telling me
you're pretty and I can see she's telling the truth.'
This was exactly the right thing to say. Phoebe, who'd
been looking out of sorts, beamed at Vida.
'Let's sit together and you can tell me all about my
stepdaughter,' Vida said confidingly. 'I want the whole low
down - men, money, and how many of those awful
chocolate ice creams she eats a week!'
Phoebe giggled into her fruit juice. Olivia and Cara
heaved sighs of relief. Vida always knew exactly the right
thing to say.
Rosie and Evie rolled up twenty minutes later, clutching
wine, mineral water and a huge container of Evie's
homemade mushroom soup. The smell mingled with the
heavenly scent of Olivia's famous seafood pasta bake
which was emanating from the kitchen.
'I love that stuff,' Phoebe said hungrily, sniffing the soup
container.
'Sorry we're late,' apologised Rosie, who looked like she
was heading for a night on the tiles in a black Lycra catsuit
and suede boots. 'My fault. I was late home from town.
Shopping.' She did a twirl. '£39.99 in Miss Selfridge.
Whaddya think?'
'If it'd fit me, I'd love to borrow it,' Cara said enviously.
'It'll never fit me now,' Phoebe added miserably, hand
going to her non-existent bump.
'Nonsense! You have naturally good bone structure,'
Vida said briskly, patting Phoebe's hand. 'You'll never have
a problem with your figure.'
The dinner party was great fun and the food and drink,
though marvellous, were secondary to the conversation.
Sasha, theoretically in bed but allowed to sit up and be
petted by her adoring aunties, showed everyone the doll's
house her daddy had bought her and then produced a
painting that showed 'Mummy and Daddy living all in the
same place.'
Olivia's eyes filled with tears as Sasha proudly showed
her painting to everyone, but they weren't sad tears. When
Sasha was back in bed with her cuddly toy menagerie, Cara
soon had everyone in knots over how she and a half
undressed Ewan had hidden under the computer desks in
her office when they'd heard Bernard Redmond pounding
up the stairs.
'Penny must have been waiting outside the door while
we were there. She kept insisting to Bernard that there was
nobody else in the room and he kept insisting he hadn't
seen me go out so I had to be there!' Cara recounted,
laughing till it hurt. 'Ewan stuffed his shirt in my mouth to
stop me from giggling out loud. I bit a hole in it! He didn't
mind, but he said he'd only bought it new that day to
impress me.'
Olivia told them all about her prospective new programme:
an hour-long afternoon chat show where she'd
interview people, with some pre-recorded stuff on local
events from a roving reporter. Nancy Roberts had heard
about it through the grapevine and had smashed the glass
coffee table in her dressing room by dropping her wine
cooler on to it in a fit of rage.
'It was priceless,' Olivia said, wiping away tears of
laughter. 'Nita, her assistant, ran out for fear Nancy was
going to stab her with a sliver of glass and nobody else
would dare go in to clean it up because she was ranting
and raving like a banshee, so Kevin locked her in until she
calmed down.'
Rosie had lots of tales of similar tantrum-throwing at the
Wicklow location where Mia Koen had taken to refusing to
get into costume every day until after Max arrived.
'She's such a tart,' Rosie said scathingly. 'She's got this
see-through white dressing gown and prances around in it
with no underwear until he gets there and sees her. Then she goes into the costume van. You can't move for technicians
on set every morning, hoping for a glimpse of her tits.
Not that she's got any.' Rosie sniffed.
Vida noticed that the only person who didn't convulse
with laughter at this was Evie. Remarkably quiet during
the meal, she'd stiffened at the mention of Mia Koen and
stopped eating, pushing pieces of succulent cod and fat,
juicy mussels round her plate aimlessly. She'd lost weight
too, Vida realised. She'd also lost the sparkle in her eyes
that had been so blindingly obvious when they'd all been
on holiday in Spain. The reason had to be Max.
Vida hated interfering but she suddenly decided that it
was far too important not to let poor Evie throw herself
away on that nice but drippy Simon if she was actually in
love with Max. Some not-so-subtle prodding would do the
trick.
'How are the wedding plans going, Evie?' she asked
brightly.
'Thrilling,' Evie said tonelessly. 'Simon's mother Mary
doesn't like any of the houses he keeps picking, and to be
honest, neither do I. The wedding reception is going to be
in a different room, a horrible room, because there was a
fire in the one we'd booked. I daresay the wedding dress
shop will be struck by lightning and the isle of Crete will
sink mysteriously into the sea, just so the dress and the honeymoon will be ruined too, to balance things up.'
Nobody spoke for a moment.
'More wine, girls?' asked Olivia in desperation.
Vida waited until Evie went to the bathroom to say her
piece. Following her, she pulled her stepdaughter into the
blue-and-white-tiled room and shut the door.
'We've got to talk.'
Evie was silent. Talking was beyond her. She felt as if
she'd run out of words. She slumped down on the edge of
the bath and stared at the floor.
'Max said the oddest thing to me the other day,' Vida
said slowly.
Evie looked up. Her every sense quivered, like an insect
with antennae sensitive to the slightest nuance of the
breeze.
'Really?'
Vida seemed to be considering whether she should say
this or not.
'I should preface this by saying that I thought the two of
you were getting close when we were in Spain. You spent
enough time hanging around together.' She smiled at the
memory. 'But I'm a great believer in letting life sort itself
out. I keep my distance over affairs of the heart. Don't
interfere, that's my motto. I also thought you were very
happy with your fiance and that you knew your own heart,
that you'd go to whichever man was the right one for you.'
'How do you know who's right for you?' Evie said
despondently.
'You just do,' Vida replied. 'I knew that Max's father,
Carlos, was the right one, the same way I knew my second
husband wasn't the right one. In my heart of hearts I knew it
but I still married him and, honey, you wouldn't believe how
unhappy Dan and I were. I don't know if I believe in hell but
I'm pretty sure I went through it during those years.'
'Why did you marry him then?' asked Evie, eyes glued
to Vida's.
She put one of Olivia's flurry white towels down on the
toilet lid and sat down gracefully on it, facing Evie.
'We'd been seeing each other for a long time and I was
lonely. He'd been a friend of Carlos's and I thought he was
being kind to me. He took me to Colorado skiing and to
San Francisco for weekends. I was numb after Carlos died
and Max was in Ireland studying ... I guess I still don't
really know how it happened but one day Dan asked me to
marry him and I said yes. I'd never really seen him that
way, as a husband, but he was a good man and I didn't
want to end up alone. We got married and that was when
the trouble started.'
'What sort of trouble?' asked Evie gently, her mind
taken off her own troubles by this fascinating story of
Vida's past.
'Dan was a complete control freak,' she said. 'God, I'd
love a cigarette,' she added, looking around as if Olivia
might have a packet and a lighter lying casually beside the
basin. 'I used to smoke then and even talking about Dan
makes me yearn for one of my Gauloises. He hated me
smoking but it was the one thing I wouldn't give up for
him. I did it for your father,' she grinned, the love apparent
in every line of her face.
'Dan couldn't bear me to be out of the house unless he
knew exactly where I was and who I was going to be out
with. Charity work was fine because he was rich and
expected me to be a rich man's wife and sit on endless
committees with all the other rich men's wives. But, Evie,'
Vida's eyes were suspiciously bright, 'I'd worked all my life
in hospital administration, I couldn't stop to sit around all
day or go shopping, with the odd committee meeting
thrown in to keep me amused. And Dan hated that. He wanted me to be there when he got home in the evening,
the perfect little wife.'
'He doesn't sound a million miles away from our own
Stephen MacKenzie,' Evie commented.
'Got it in one, honey. I don't like that man, I can tell
you, and I doubt he'll ever change.'
'Olivia says he's getting counselling,' protested Evie.
Vida looked surprised. 'That's great to hear. I'd be very
happy for Olivia if he does change. She deserves a good
man. Unfortunately for me, Dan would have needed more
than a shrink to change the way he thought. He'd have
needed a brain transplant.'
'What happened in the end?'
'After seven years of torture, he did us both a favour by
totalling his speedboat off Martha's Vineyard. I wasn't
with him at the time, thankfully, so nobody could blame
me for driving it into the rocks and jumping to safety,' she
said, her voice raw with irony. 'Although anyone who
knew us as a couple wouldn't have been surprised if I had killed him.'
Evie couldn't help but smile as she thought of her initial
and utterly insane impression of Vida: a glamorous black
widow who married and killed. How terribly wrong shed
been. And how unfair.
'Do you think anyone in this apartment block smokes
and we could ask them for a couple of emergency cigarettes?'
Vida asked, emotionally worn out by her story.
Normally unflappable, she looked rattled.
'I'm ashamed of what I was like to you in the beginning,'
Evie said earnestly.
Tish, we've gone over that before. It's forgotten.' Vida
waved a hand dismissively. 'It was tough on you because
you loved your mother and because you're so close to
Andrew. But look how well it's all worked out now.'
"I didn't have anything in my life, you see,' Evie
explained darkly, feeling the need to explain. 'I needed to
make my father terribly important, I needed somewhere to
go for weekends, someone to fuss over. You can't fuss over
Rosie anymore: she's too old. Dad was my project. I could
spend time with him and nobody would think I was
strange because I didn't have a husband or a boyfriend.
People at work used to ask what I was doing at the
weekend and I could say, "Spending time with my father,
he's lonely and he needs me".' She laughed bitterly. 'He
wasn't lonely, I was.'
'Didn't that change when you met Simon?' Vida asked
softly.
Evie shook her head. 'Not really, to be honest. He went
to his mother's most of the time and I went to see Dad.
Business as usual. Then you came along and I lost it. I
couldn't cope. It was the shock of realising he wouldn't be
there for me in the same way, that I couldn't drive to
Ballymoreen on bank holidays when everybody else was
with a partner and fuss around him.'
She stopped, remembering exactly when she'd got over
her father's remarrying: on the very day of his marriage,
the day she'd met Max Stewart. Meeting Max had crystallised
everything in her head. She'd fallen crazily in love
with him and all the pieces of her life thereafter had fallen
into place. Andrew could stop being the focus of her
worries because he now had somebody else to worry about
him - and Evie now had somebody else to think endlessly
about, someone to dream about at night, someone to think
of as soon as she opened her eyes in the morning: Max.
Only he didn't know how deeply she felt about him, and
now, he never would.
'You know, I must be losing my marbles,' Vida said,
getting up and splashing water on her face. Age is a terrible thing. I came in here to talk to you about my son
and I've got weirdly sidetracked.' She carefully patted her
skin dry with some tissue paper. 'I asked Max would he be
around for your wedding because, as you know, your father
and I are having a little party for you before you go on to
your honeymoon, and he said he couldn't bear to. He'd
rather be in hell than be here for that.'
Evie's heart leapt.
'He did?' she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Vida nodded. Evie didn't have to know she was lying
through her teeth. Max had said nothing to his mother but
she wouldn't be much of a parent if she didn't know he
was crazy in love with Evie Fraser. As it was now plain to
Vida that Evie returned the sentiment, a little fib was a
small price to pay for getting them together.
'Yes, he did,' she said fervently 'He didn't have to spell it
out for me, Evie. He meant he couldn't handle being
around while you got married when he wanted to be the
guy in the suit at the altar with you.'
'You think so?' Evie could barely talk. Her throat was
overcrowded with frogs.
Vida put her arms around her trembling stepdaughter
and held her close. "I know my own son, Evie. I want you
to be happy and I'm not going to interfere any more than
I've done now. But,' she held Evie away from her, determined
to get one message across for certain, 'don't marry
anyone unless you really, really want to. Rings, dresses and
gifts can all go back. Hurt and humiliation go away
eventually. It's much harder to mend a broken heart ten
years down the road when it's all gone wrong and the
marriage is over'
Evie bit her lip. You didn't need to be a rocket scientist
to figure out what Vida was telling her: she shouldn't
marry Simon.
She knew that herself, of course. She was merely terrified
she'd left it far too late to back out now. The
ceremony was in eight days' time; the church was booked,
the reception too, and the honeymoon. Sixty people had
bought new outfits, borrowed hats, organised babysitters
and arranged to meet other friends, planning who'd be on
taxi duty that night when they were all plastered and
incapable of driving after celebrating Evie and Simon's
marvellous wedding.
How could you cancel all that? And how could she ever
tell sweet, trusting, anxious Simon that she wasn't going to
marry him after all?

Picking the venue was hell. People picked special places for
special moments and this was definitely a special moment,
unforgettable really, so she had to.pick somewhere special.
Somewhere he could cry if he wanted to; somewhere she could cry. Evie thought of the restaurant where Simon had
taken her to propose. At the time, she'd wished he'd put a
bit more thought into the choice of venue. They'd had the
Early Bird menu, she remembered, and a child at a nearby
table had driven them mad screaming for fish and chips.
God, it all seemed like a million years ago. Had she really
said she wanted to marry Simon then?
Evie sighed. What Vida had said last night was the truth:
there was no other way. She had to call the wedding off.
'I don't think we've got the money to be buying paintings,
Evie,' Simon said when she phoned and asked him
would he like to take a stroll around Merrion Square and
look at the marvellous street gallery that appeared there on
Sundays. Come rain or shine, every Sunday the railings
around the pretty garden square were hung with oils and
watercolours, big, small and indifferent. The artists sat on
deckchairs and talked among themselves while people meandered along, looking at oils of desolate Western landscapes
and bright pictures of Dublin's Georgian doors.
Evie used to take Rosie there on Sundays when she was
younger. It was fun and it was free, ideal for a broke single
parent.
She'd never gone to Merrion Square with Simon. The
place held no memories of them, which was why she chose
it. Probably neither of them would ever want to go there
again afterwards.
'I'll meet you there,' she said, trying to finish the phone
conversation.
'What would you want to meet me there for?' he asked.
'I'll drive us.'
She panicked. They had to go there in separate cars so
they could go home separately. There was no way she'd be
able to cope with sitting in the car with Simon after she'd
told him the wedding was off.
'No! I've got to go to Olivia's afterwards,' she said
hurriedly.
'I don't know why you've got this fancy to go to Merrion
Square all of a sudden,' he grumbled. 'There's a special on
Sky One about the FBI and serial killers.'
You'll probably turn into a serial killer yourself with rage
after I tell you the news, Evie thought sadly as she put
down the phone. She wished she didn't have to do this,
wished it with all her heart. But she had to.
She parked her car at the Mount Street end of Merrion
Square as arranged and sat waiting for Simon to drive up.
Her heart was thumping along with nerves and her palms
were sweaty. Celine Dion was sweetly singing 'Think
Twice' on the radio, begging her lover not to end it. Evie
switched the radio off.
She should have had a drink or a tranquilliser or
something, anything, to help her through this. Simon was a
lovely, kind, decent man and he didn't deserve this. She
was a bitch and a cow. She deserved to he sent to prison
for hurting . . .
'Evie, are you staying there all day?' Simon yelled in
through the wound-up window.
They joined the procession of people strolling around
the square.
'I don't like these type of pictures,' he whispered to her
as they passed some modern oils, vibrant slashes of colour
painted thickly on huge canvases.
Evie barely saw the paintings. All she could see was a
horrible vision of the church where they'd intended to get
married, full of flowers and people, with Simon standing
open-mouthed at the altar.
'If you want to buy some paintings for the house, I
don't think we have the money,' he added apologetically.
'Budgets will be tight for quite a while. Of course, my
mother wants to get us something special and if you saw
one you really liked ... I fancy something with boats. Do
you think they have anything with boats in it? Dalkey
harbour, maybe?'
'Simon, I don't want to buy any paintings,' Evie
announced. 'I brought you here to talk to you. Let's go into
the gardens.'
She led the way into the actual square, along the path to
a bench that looked out over a manicured lawn. Purple
and yellow pansies bowed their soft petals under the heat
of the sun. Evie wished she was a pansy: flowers never had
to break off engagements. She sat down and took a deep
breath. This was it: she had to do it now.
Looking a little bewildered, Simon sat down beside her.
He reached for her hand and stopped, his own hovering in
mid-air over Evie's left hand which was bare apart from
her watch.
'You're not wearing your ring,' he said in an accusing
voice.
'No.' She had it in its little box, nestling in the velvety
pink fabric. She hadn't wanted to take it off her finger and
hand it back to him: this had seemed nicer. That way, he
wouldn't fling it away with rage and then later regret it on
the grounds that it had cost a fortune and he could always
sell it and realise his investment.
'I can't marry you, Simon.' There! She'd said it. Blunt
but truthful.
'What?' He shook his head, confusion and hurt written
all over his pale face.
There was no going back. 'I'm sorry, Simon. I should
have said this a long time ago but I don't want to get
married to you. I wish there was a nicer, less hurtful way of
doing this and I wish . . .'
He interrupted her, shocked. 'But it's less than a week
away. It's on Saturday, next Saturday, Evie. You . . . you . . .
you're joking, right?' he stammered.
She didn't want to face those hurt grey eyes but she had
to. Evie stared steadily at her fiance and said, 'I'm not
joking, Simon. I can't marry you.'
'But I love you, Evie,' he pleaded. 'Say you're only upset,
say it's just last-minute nerves . . . please?'
'I can't,' she said in anguish. 'I wish I could but I can't.
I'm calling it off. Simon. I'm sorry, there's no other way.'
'What about all our plans? I mean, can't you think about
it, can't you give me a few days and try?'
He didn't get it, she thought in desperation. Closing her
eyes, she launched into the real reason why.
'I'm in love with Max Stewart, Simon. That's why we
have to break it off I'm not seeing him but I fell in love
with him and that means it would be wrong to marry you.'
She opened her eyes gingerly.
Simon wasn't running his fingers through his hair or
shoving his glasses anxiously on to the bridge of his nose.
He was simply sitting there looking at her with an expression
of such desolation Evie thought she couldn't bear it.
'You did say you didn't know if you believed in true love
and that people just sort of got used to each other and
learned to live with each other,' she said desperately. 'I
needed something more than that, Simon. I needed love,
true love, romantic love like in my novels. I'm sorry, so
sorry.'
'I should have known that someone like Max would
steal you away from me,' he said quietly. 'What hope did I
have beside him? I can't change your mind, I know. Not
when it's someone like him.'
His voice was resigned. There was no question of her
staying with him, he seemed to be saying, when she'd
fallen for a man like Max.
Evie was stunned by his reaction, his passive acceptance
of the situation. How sad to accept that your own
girlfriend could quite easily find someone else more
interesting than you. Simon's opinion of himself was so
low it seemed reasonable to him that Evie could fall for
another man.
She put her hand on his. He didn't pull away or scream
abuse at her. He let her hold his hand quietly.
'I don't deserve how good you're being to me,' she said
truthfully. 'I never wanted to hurt you, Simon. You've been
such a good friend to me. I just couldn't marry you
knowing what I do. It would be wrong, it would destroy
both of us.'
He nodded numbly.
They sat like that for half an hour. Evie spoke about
cancelling all the arrangements as calmly as if she was a
third party brought in to deal with the fall-out of someone else's shattered engagement. She said who she'd telephone
and who Simon should telephone. She said he was to tell
people whatever he felt was right: if he wanted to say he'd
broken it off then he should. She didn't mind. He
deserved to save face.
Finally, she fished the ring box out of her handbag and
handed it to him. There were no words for that sort of
thing, no script for the handing back of an engagement
ring. That was the way she left him: sitting with the little
ring box in his hand, gazing at the flowers with unseeing
eyes. Evie cried all the way home, barely able to see the
traffic lights or the other cars because of her tears. She
cried for poor Simon who'd loved her but who'd accepted
that she loved someone else. Guilt and self-hatred mingled
with sheer, blessed relief. She'd done it, it was over,
finally over.
At the sight of her mother's tear-stained face, Rosie
had hugged her and made them tea, before making
something stronger with far too much gin and not half
enough flat tonic. Her face swollen with tears, Evie had
begged Rosie to tell no one until she told people herself.
She didn't mention why she had ended the engagement,
she didn't mention Max at all. Yet Rosie didn't seem
surprised by the news.
'He wasn't right for you, Mum,' she said earnestly. 'I
always knew it. He's a nice person but he was wrong for
you. You need someone heroic, someone like Dad was.'
Evie cried even harder at that. More guilt. She should
never have made Tony out to be this wonderful person.
She couldn't tell Rosie what he'd really been like, that
she'd gone back to using her maiden name when he died
because she couldn't bear to use his. Evie had always said it
was because the people in her office knew her as Eraser
and she'd never changed it. Only Olivia knew that Evie
would have killed herself rather than be called Evie
Mitchell, the name of the man who'd been in love with a
married woman when he married Evie. He'd married her
because she was pregnant and within a month, had made it
plain that he wanted a child but not a clinging wife. His
affair would continue and Evie could like it or lump it. No
wonder she'd never cried at his funeral.
Rosie should have known the truth but it was Evie's
fault she didn't. She felt like a congenital liar who ran
through life lying to everyone she cared about, telling huge
untruths. She was a terrible, terrible person.
'If only Dad hadn't died, none of this would have
happened,' Rosie said solemnly. 'What you need is somebody
like him.'
She went off to work reluctantly on Monday morning. 'I
should stay with you, Mum,' she protested. 'You're still in
shock.'
'Please go, darling,' Evie said, grey in the face after a
sleepless night where she'd thought of nothing but Simon.
'I'm not going into work today. I've got to start cancelling
things, telling people. I'll be OK on my own.'
She cringed at the thought of telling friends and relatives
that the great wedding was off, but the worst was over.
Telling Simon had been like hitting some trusting wild
animal you'd coaxed out of the woods to feed by hand.
Yet in the middle of her guilt-ridden misery, a spark of
pure unadulterated joy burned brightly in her heart. Now
that she was finally free, she could be with Max. It was the
one thing that had kept her going during the endless hours
of the night. Max . . . he'd told her he loved her, hadn't he?
He'd told Vida he couldn't bear to be around for Evie's
wedding, so he couldn't be with Mia Koen after all.
He was waiting for Evie, like the knight with a white
charger, all saddled up and waiting for the damsel to call him. It seemed terrible to be happy in the midst of
Simon's pain, but Evie was incredibly happy. She was free.
She fantasised about Max's exultant cry when he discovered
she was his. 'Evie, my darling, I can't believe it! I've
dreamed of this moment for so long. I've driven past your
house and wondered what you were doing so many times. I we
rung your phone number a thousand times just to hear your
voice but I never spoke. I knew you had to come to me. Now
we'll never be apart, ever . . .'
She found the number in her daughter's diary. The
phone number Max had given Rosie in Spain so that she
could ring him and arrange the job in his company.
Evie wrote it down, replaced the diary in Rosie's drawer,
and went downstairs, feeling as nervous as a kitten. She
dialled with shaking hands, wondering how she was going
to start the conversation. Hello, Max, I'm not getting married
after all. Does that invitation to lunch still stand?
After six rings, an answering machine kicked in: Max's
voice filled her ears, his rich, gravelly tones telling her he
wasn't in but to leave a message. Evie could have listened
all day. She smiled as she thought of him getting her
message. She waited for the beep, still smiling. Then the
phone was picked up.
'Hello?' said a woman's voice. A soft Southern drawl
that sounded like icy Mint Juleps, ripe peaches and long,
sultry days in the Atlanta sun. Mia Koen's voice. 'Max, is
that you, honey? I can't hear a thing. I bet your mobile
phone's on the blink again. You're in a bad signal area,
honey. Call me back in a minute.'
Evie put the phone down quietly. Thank God she hadn't
left a message. Imagine Mia playing it and laughing to
herself, laughing at the idea that the hick Irish woman was
in love with her Max. Max who lived with her in some
luxurious loft apartment with wooden floors and exposed
beams. Imagine Max listening to it with her, both of them
laughing hysterically at the very idea.
Evie went out into the garden, put on her gloves and
began to weed the flower bed at the back of the garden.
When the tears began to drop relentlessly on to the hard,
baked earth, she didn't bother to wipe them away.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Phoebe looked at herself sideways in the hall mirror. At
five months pregnant, her bump was visible but still small.
She was lucky she could still get away with wearing bigger
sizes of normal clothes instead of maternity things, which
all seemed to be horrendously expensive when she and
Cara trekked around the shops.
'Maybe I do want to know if it's going to be a boy or
a girl,' she said thoughtfully, going back into the flat's
sitting room which was crowded with shopping bags and
Christmas wrapping paper.
Zoe groaned from her position on the chair with the
dodgy spring, where she was eating crisps and reading her
horoscope. 'Phoebs, every second day you want to know
what sex it is, and every other day you don't want to know.
Make up your mind.'
'It's important,' Phoebe protested. 'If it's a girl, perhaps I
should be doing something different from what I should be
doing if it's a boy.'
'If it's a boy, you'd be ravenous for beer and pizza all the
time,' Zoe theorised, 'and if it's a girl, you'd be getting
cravings for chocolate and re-runs of Dynasty.'
'It's definitely a girl, then,' Cara said, returning from an
emergency trip to the grocery shop in Rathmines with
another box of Mars Bar ice creams and a lot of assorted
chocolate goodies. 'They think we're all mad in that shop.'
she said. 'The woman behind the counter can't understand
why we're buying ice cream in December.'
'Did you explain it was for a pregnant woman?' Phoebe
grinned, ripping open the carton almost before Cara had
taken it out of the plastic carrier bag.
'Phoebe, we were eating just as many last December
when you weren't pregnant.'
'True.'
They were all quiet for a few minutes, eating happily
and half watching The Sound of Music with the sound
turned down. Phoebe loved old films but Zoe said she
couldn't bear to hear 'Edelweiss' one more time and could
they turn it down for a while?
Ice cream finished, Zoe went back to reading horoscopes.
'Listen to this,' she said. ' "Leos will find happiness away
from home this Christmas but be sure to think before you
speak." I'm glad I'm going to your dad's for Christmas, Cara.
I couldn't bear another festive season with the boys and my
father killing each other.'
'You're sure your father and Vida are happy we're
coming?' Phoebe asked a bit anxiously.
'Vida says that's the whole point of the annexe, so guests
can stay and do their own thing,' Cara pointed out
patiently. 'There's only two bedrooms so you'll have to
share because Ewan's going to be in with me. Poor Rosie is
in bits because there's no room for her in the annexe. Evie
can't understand it because Vida has a lovely bedroom
with a half-tester bed in it for Rosie.'
'Rosie probably thinks we'll all be drinking and sitting
up till very late being wild,' Zoe said, 'and she's wrong.
Phoebe will be watching old films all day, I'll be going
round like a mad woman at the relief of missing the
testosterone-filled war zone at home, and you and Ewan will be breaking the new bed in your bedroom as you
practise for the Sexual Olympics.'
'Ha bloody ha,' retorted Cara good-humouredly. She
was feeling so very happy. She was spending Christmas
with Ewan, her family and the girls. Vida's idea had been a
marvellous one. The new house in Ballymoreen was finally
finished, a masterpiece of Victorian architecture and a
testament to Andrew's ability to sweet talk the builders
into actually finishing it when they'd said they would.
The main house had five bedrooms, four reception
rooms and a huge, stone-floored kitchen where the dogs,
Gooch and Jessie, took great delight in sliding up and
down on the tiles when they were excited. One of the
stables had been converted into a self-contained apartment
with two bedrooms, a bathroom and a large kitchen-cum
sitting room with a real fireplace.
When Cara had turned down the offer of a family
Christmas at home and explained that she was going to
stay in Dublin with Phoebe for the holidays because she
was getting so much grief from her father about being
pregnant and unmarried, Vida had immediately suggested
the annexe.
'You can be in peace there and do your own thing but
it'd be lovely to have you with us over the holiday,' she
said hopefully. 'Phoebe could do with a change of scene,
I'm sure, to help her get over being abandoned by that
awful boyfriend of hers. Your father would be heartbroken
if you didn't come to us.'
Zoe, hearing about the plan, had immediately given Cara
a sad-eyed, And rex-puppy look that plainly said, 'Please,
please, can I come too?'
It was now two days before Christmas and they were
leaving on the six o'clock bus that evening. The morning's
shopping had yielded all sorts of Christmas gifts and plenty
of edible goodies for the holiday. But nothing was
wrapped, nobody had packed so much as a pair of knickers
and Zoe had been saying she had to drop home and grab
her stuff for at least the past hour.
'Why don't you wrap the presents and I'll start packing?'
Cara suggested to Phoebe. And you go home, for God's
sake,' she added to Zoe, who was now reading Cara's
horoscope, 'it's nearly three and we have to leave here at
half-four to get to the bus.'
' "Librans will be fulfilled this Yuletide," ' Zoe giggled.
'You can say that again! Ewan is very keen on fulfilling
you. "They should be aware of overindulging in rich foods
but this will be a time of rejoicing for them."
'Go home,' Cara said, shooing her out into the hall. 'I
will not be rejoicing if we miss the bus because of you, you
big eejit.'
'Ah, sure, if we miss it, we can all drive down with Ewan
tomorrow afternoon,' protested Zoe, who hated travelling
on buses.
'Oh, yeah? Four suitcases, ten bags of presents, three
boxes filled with chocolates, booze and cake, and four
people are going to fit into one small sports car? Get out.
We are not missing the bus and that's that.'
In the end, they made the bus at the very last minute
which meant the luggage compartment was almost totally
full with the other travellers' Christmas packages and the
three of them would have to sit with boxes and bags on
their laps for the entire journey.
'I'll kill you, Zoe.' muttered Cara, failing to get comfortable
as the bus edged along in the horrendous Christmas
traffic, moving a foot at a time. 'The journey is going to
take three hours at this rate and I'll have no circulation left
in my legs with this box on my lap.'
'Ah, shut up,' said Zoe from the seat in front, just as uncomfortable with the wine box on her lap. 'We got here,
didn't we?'
Battling hordes of crazed Christmas shoppers desperate
to abandon cars in the already-jammed city centre car
parks, the bus crawled out of Dublin at a snail's pace. The
Christmas spirit was noticeably absent with much bickering
about being squashed and grumbling that the heating
didn't work.
'I'm buying a car next year,' Cara growled to Phoebe,
who was beside her. But Phoebe was asleep, her round face
content as she slept, hands clasped around her belly,
protecting her precious cargo. Cara smiled. Her flatmate
was being so strong about having this baby on her own. If
she could deal with that and with being dumped by Ricky,
then it was ludicrous Cara and Zoe bitching about being
stuck on a crowded bus. So they'd be squashed for a while?
Big deal.
The bus driver had had enough of his bad-tempered
passengers. He slotted a tape of Christmas carols into the
tape deck. As the sound of a children's choir singing 'Silent
Night' drifted into the air, the entire bus seemed to take a
collective breath and remember the whole point of the
season. A hand holding a packet of toffees shot back from
the seat in front. 'D'you want a sweet?' hissed Zoe, her red
head appearing around the back.
'Love one,' said Cara. 'Sorry I was so cross with you. I'm
a bad-tempered old cow sometimes.'
'That makes two of us,' Zoe agreed.
They chewed their toffees companionably for a while. "I
think I'll try and doze,' Cara said eventually, realising that
the journey would feel like forever if she couldn't block
some of it out.
She closed her eyes but couldn't sleep. There were so
many things to think about that she just couldn't switch off.
Ewan, lovely Ewan, was in her head all the time. They'd
discussed moving in together and the very thought of it gave
Cara a warm glow in the pit of her stomach. Imagine waking
up with him every morning, sharing the bathroom with
him, curling up watching TV together, doing the grocery
shopping together, spending hours in bed on Saturday
mornings, reading, snoozing, making love . . .
The only problem was Phoebe. Cara didn't want to
abandon her friend in her time of need. If only they could
get two flats together so that they could be just down the
hail if she needed anything. Then they could both help
looking after the baby. Cara rather liked the idea of that.
She could imagine herself and Ewan strolling along the
canal, talking baby talk and pointing out the swans and
ducks. Phoebe had already insisted that Cara should be
godmother.
'You've got to be,' she said at least once a day. 'You're so
good to me, coming with me to scans and stuff.'
'Your mother would go with you if you asked her,' Cara
said delicately, hoping to heal the rift that Phoebe's desperately
religious father had started within her family.
'She hasn't so far,' Phoebe replied gloomily.
The next thing Cara knew, Zoe was shaking her awake.
'We're here. Get up or the bus will drive off again and God
knows where we'll end up.'
Like the three wise men burdened with gifts, the three
of them staggered off the bus. Andrew stood waiting for
them.
'Dad!' Cara practically collapsed against him from the
weight she was carrying. 'I've never been so pleased to see
anyone in my life.'
He hugged her back tightly. I'm so glad you're here,
love,' he said. 'So glad. Christmas just wouldn't have been
the same if you hadn't come.'
'Unfortunately,' said Zoe, 'you've got us pair into the
bargain.'
Andrew gave her and Phoebe hugs as well. 'We're
thrilled to have you all. Vida has lasagne, baked potatoes
and mulled wine waiting for you, and the dogs are hysterical
with the excitement. They know someone is coming
and every time the doorbell rings, they go insane. Gooch
has all his teddies lined up inside the back door, ready to
give them to guests as presents. Just be warned, girls:
Gooch's teddies are all covered in drool and dog food.'
Cara beamed as she started shoving bags and boxes into
the boot of her father's car. It was wonderful to be home.

Olivia shut the front door, dropped her briefcase and bags
on to the hall floor and levered her feet out of the spindly
stilettos she'd worn to the office party. It had still been in
full swing when she'd left, despite the fact that it had
started at lunchtime and the time was now seven o'clock.
The Wake Up Morning Show set in Studio One would
never be the same again, what with all the booze spilt on
Nancy's precious settees and the amount of abuse the
fragile set had been given by giggling and sozzled staff
falling over things as they danced to the seventies disco
music some bright spark had put on.
'Don't go, Olivia,' Kevin had wailed when she'd said
goodbye to everyone and put her plastic cup of mineral
water down on the only inch of the make-shift bar that
wasn't already covered with wine bottles and empty cups.
A silver paper hat sat sideways on top of Kevin's
peroxide crop and there were multi-coloured streamers
hanging around his neck. He was plastered.
He threw his arms around her. 'Don't go,' he pleaded,
breathing booze fumes at her. 'We love you, don't we,
everyone:
Anyone who could still speak slurred, 'Yesh.'
'See?' Kevin was so proud. 'Nobody would say yesh for
Nancy'
Olivia kissed her friend and confidant on the cheek and
untangled herself 'I have to go home, it's a special night for
Stephen and me.'
'Sorry. Forgot. Hope it all works out for you both.
Kissy-kissy and I'll see you in January.'
Olivia put her winter coat in the hall cupboard and
padded quietly to the kitchen door.
Something that smelled delicious was bubbling away in
the oven. Stephen had his back to the door and was bent over
the sink. Sasha was sitting up at the table, small face solemn
as she inexpertly stuck cotton wool on to Santa's crayoned-in
red hat. Scraps of paper, crayons, fluorescent pens and a tube
of child-friendly glue lay scattered on the table.
'How are you getting on with Santa?' asked Stephen,
moving away from the worktop where he was washing
peppers for the salad to go with the coq au inn he'd been
labouring over.
Neither of them had heard Olivia come into the apartment.
She watched silently, her heart bursting with happiness
at the scene in front of her.
Stephen bent over Sasha, nuzzling her hair as he
admired her handiwork.
'That's very good. You're so clever,' he said proudly.
'It's for you and Mummy,' Sasha said, still concentrating
on her cotton wool.
'Mummy loves it,' Olivia murmured, going over to the
table. She kissed the top of Sasha's head then turned to
Stephen. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her
full on the mouth. He tasted of garlic. He tasted wonderful.
She kissed him back, closing her eyes and giving in to
the sensation.
'I didn't expect you back so soon.'
'I wanted to leave for ages, I wanted to get home to you
two. But it was so difficult. Linda's about the only sober
person left at the party,' Olivia explained. 'The studio is a
disaster area and she kept wandering round, saying, "We'll
never get this fixed!"
'I'm delighted you're home early,' Stephen said, still
holding on to her.
'Christmas starts here.' Olivia leaned her head tiredly on
his shoulder.
'I don't know why we never did this before: have
Christmas at home on our own,' Stephen sighed. 'It's so
relaxed here, just the three of us.'
'And the guinea pig,' Sasha piped up.
Her parents burst out laughing. Santa had been asked for
a guinea pig. Two were arriving the next day, complete
with a palace of a hutch and all sorts of guinea pig goodies.
'Just the five of us for Christmas, then,' whispered
Olivia into Stephen's ear before nibbling it tenderly.
He held her closer to him. 'If you keep doing that,' he
said with a smirk, 'there'll be six of us next Christmas.'
She smiled contentedly. 'That sounds wonderful.' she
said dreamily.

Evie unearthed her handbag from behind the driver's
seat, pulled her coat on over her old sweatshirt and
locked the door. She felt exhausted after the drive down
to Ballymoreen. It had been all endless traffic and
maddened drivers overtaking on dangerous corners.
Thanks to the traffic, it was now half-nine at night and
Evie wanted nothing more than to sink into her bed in
her own home and not have to make polite conversation
with anyone. There was no chance of that.
As soon as they'd pulled up outside Andrew and Vida's
new home, Rosie had bounced out of the car and run
around to the hack door. The security light had come on
when she had passed it, lighting up the graceful redbrick
building and casting malevolent shadows down the long
garden. It was freezing and dark, but Evie couldn't face
going into the house just yet. She knew it'd be warm and
welcoming; the Aga roasting hot; something appetising on
the table; Vida and her father thrilled to sec her. Cara was
probably already there with the girls, all laughing and
chatting, happy in the joyous Christmas atmosphere. But Evie didn't feel Christmassy. She felt like the horrible
spirit of Christmas past - gloomy and ancient. She didn't
know if she'd ever feel happy again. All she felt these days
was numb.
You couldn't remain numb forever, could you? Then
again, maybe you could. She'd been numb for four months
already.
She opened the boot and looked wearily at the suitcase
and bags piled higgledy-piggledy inside. She'd probably
forgotten loads of things. Imagine that! The once perfectly
organised Evie Fraser not having her Christmas presents
wrapped, labelled and indexed since November. She
looked at the boot grimly. That Evie was gone forever,
along with the naive, innocent woman who'd dreamed of
true love and kept herself insulated from real life with a
diet of romances.
The only thing she was sure she'd packed was her latest
serial killer novel. Cannibalism and mutilation weren't the
best subjects to read about before going to sleep but at
least they kept the human ghosts out of her dreams.
Nightmares about killers were easier to handle than desolate
dreams of a man she'd loved and lost. She heard a
crunch on the gravel. A figure was coming from around the
back of house. Her father to help with the luggage.
Only it wasn't her father. It was the last person she'd
expected to see: Max. Vida had said he'd be out of the
country, had been for months. Knowing he wasn't going to
be there was the only reason Evie had agreed to go to
Ballymoreen for Christmas. She'd get back in the car and
drive straight home, she decided hysterically. She couldn't
wait. He'd be here with Mia and she couldn't cope with that.
Now he was advancing on her, still handsome even in an
old jumper with dog hairs on it and worn jeans. His face
was in shadow as his back was to the security light. The
shadows couldn't hide the glittering of his eyes as he
looked at her. He seemed thinner than she remembered,
still a great big bear of a man but more big cat than grizzly.
Evie took a step backwards nearer her car.
'What are you doing here?' she snapped, nerves making
her sound harsh.
'Waiting for you.'
'Why?' she hissed, feeling like a trapped fox.
Max was beside her now, his face tender as he towered
over her.
'To tell you we've wasted too much time and we're not
wasting any more,' he said firmly.
Just the sound of his voice made Evie melt. She longed
to touch him, to run her fingers through that thick black
hair, to feel his mouth against hers. Then she blinked. What
had he said?
'What did you say?' she asked.
He repeated it. 'I love you and I'm not letting you out of
my sight until you agree to spend the rest of your life with
me.'
Evie stared at him. 'Why?' she asked, knowing it
sounded stupid.
'Because my mother phoned me up in South Africa
three days ago and told me to stop being such a bloody
idiot and come home. That you weren't married and you
were wasting away after me and why hadn't I done
anything about it?'
'B-but why . . . how?' Evie couldn't get the words out.
This was so bewildering. She'd dreamed of him so often,
now he was here it felt very strange. This had to be some
hallucination, some after effect of several hours' driving
down country roads in the dark.
'How is a good one,' Max said, a grin lighting up his face.
Trying to get a last-minute flight home in Christmas week
is damn' near impossible. I've been flying on and off for the
past thirty-six hours to get here.' His face darkened. 'Why
is because I didn't know you weren't married. Why didn't
you tell me, Evie?' She could hear the anguish in his words.
'If I'd known you'd called it off, I'd have thought there was
some hope for me, some hope you might love me.'
'I did call,' she breathed. 'Mia answered the phone and
so I knew she was living with you.'
'She was living in the company flat,' Max said, stunned.
'She's never lived with me. I gave you my phone number
at the wedding, you never rang me. The company flat is a
different number. I stayed there for a couple of days when
we got back from Spain because the decorators were still
in my place . . .'
'You gave that number to Rosie, didn't you?' Evie asked,
an excitingly heady sensation coming over her. 'So she
could phone you about a job with the company.'
'Yes.'
'And I used that number to phone you.'
Max grabbed her shoulders. 'Evie, what made you think
I was with Mia? I told you I loved you, didn't you believe
?'
me
She closed her eyes at the pleasure of his touch and then
shivered from a mixture of cold and excitement.
'You're freezing, my love,' he said, anxiously. 'I shouldn't
be keeping you out in this.'
My love . . . he'd called her 'my love'. Evie reeled at the
thought of it. All those months of torture and he did love
her after all.
Taking one of her small, cold hands in his large, warm
one, he led her round to the back door. In the hall,
surrounded by Wellington boots and walking sticks, Max
Stewart pulled Evie Eraser into his arms and held her to
him as if they'd die if they were parted.
She clung to him, feeling his heart beating as wildly as
her own through his sweater. Then, he lowered his head to
hers and their lips met.
It was the sweetest kiss in the world. Gently, as if he was
kissing porcelain, Max's mouth touched hers. Evie let
herself lean into him, feeling his taut body hard against
hers, his chest crushed against her breasts. She'd never
thought she'd experience this again, this wonderful, joyous
love. Her whole body felt alive next to his and her heart
was free as a kite soaring into a summer breeze. His mouth
became more insistent. Suddenly they were grinding their
lips together, as if to make up for all that wasted time
when they could have been clinging to each other, making
love and plans.
'Evie, Evie, why did it take us so long to sort things out.?'
he muttered into the soft cloud of her hair. 'Why didn't
you believe me when I said I loved you? What made you
think I cared about Mia?'
'It was so like what happened to me before, with my
husband. I thought I couldn't trust you,' she said, tears
suddenly appearing in her eyes as she stared at the cable
stitch on his jumper. 'I couldn't trust Tony, you see. He was
involved with another woman when he died. He'd only
married me because I was pregnant but this woman had
been with him for years. She was married to a friend of his.
I never knew anything about it until Rosie was born. He
told me then, told me he didn't want me to think anything
was going to be different. He loved her and that was that.'
'Jesus,' Max said, eyes full of pity for what she'd gone
through. 'You poor little love'
Now that she was telling him the whole awful story, it
was like a plug had been pulled and everything rushed out.
'I never cried when he was hit by the car. It was a relief
after what he'd told me. Nobody knew but Olivia; Rosie
hasn't a clue what he was like. That,' she said passionately,
'is why I never contacted you again. It was like history
repeating itself. You and Mia . . . you'd been with her
before me and you'd never give her up . . .' Her voice
broke finally with the strain of saying all the terrible things
she'd lived with for the past four months.
'I saw you talking to her in Spain that last night. She's so
beautiful and I was sure you wanted her. How could I
think differently?'
'That night in Spain, Mia was telling me she wanted us
to get back together,' Max explained earnestly. 'She was
bored with her life, thought I'd liven it up.' He stroked
Evie's face tenderly as he spoke. 'I told her I wasn't
interested, that I was in love. With you. The next morning
you told me you were still marrying bloody Simon!' He
spat the name out. 'So I left you alone and left the country
before your wedding. I haven't been back since. I couldn't
bear to ask my mother about you. It's been hell.'
Evie could imagine exactly what that was like: the same
hell she'd gone through. Pain and suffering, living like a
robot, doing everything automatically because of the ache
in her very soul.
'I thought you were with Mia, that I'd been a one-night
stand or something,' she whispered. 'I kept looking at her picture in the papers, expecting to see an announcement
that you two were engaged or having triplets or something.'
'And I thought you were living in married bliss and that
I'd meant nothing to you.' He laughed. 'What stupid
morons we've been! If my mother hadn't rung me . . .'
'What have I done now?' inquired Vida, sticking her
head round the hall door.
Max and Evie both jumped at the interruption. Then
they relaxed against each other, arms instinctively wrapping
around each other's waist.
'Given us one hell of a Christmas present,' Max said.
Vida beamed at them.
'Now, Mother, could you shut the door for another few
minutes? We've got some catching up to do,' he asked
politely.
'Charming,' said Vida, sounding thrilled. She shut the
door softly.
'Catching up?' Evie asked, a twinkle in her eyes. 'What
did you have in mind?'
Max's eyes glittered. 'We'll think of something,' he
murmured.