They’re both Irish, both glamorous. Ruby has a crush on him.’
‘He’s something else,’ Ruby sighed. ‘If I didn’t know from experience how painful it is when another bitch runs off with your man, I’d go for Mr Kennedy in a big way. We’re talking double chocolate chip with real chocolate sauce.’
‘That good?’ said Abby, impressed. She’d bet that no matter how cute Greg Kennedy was, he couldn’t be better looking than Jay Garnier.
She paid the bill, hugged Sally goodbye carefully so as not to smudge her nails, and left the salon. There were three messages on her mobile phone when she switched it on. One from Tom: ‘Can you pick up my grey suit from the cleaner’s? I’ve got a parent-teacher tomorrow night and I’ll need it. Oh, I’ll be late tonight. Half seven probably. I won’t have eaten. See you then.’ Abby felt the kernel of dissatisfaction inside her swell. What was she – chief cook and bottle-washer or a career woman who was responsible for their financial success? Tom’s bloody deputy principal’s salary wouldn’t have bought them a house in Dunmore, that was for sure, and yet she was still the one hauling her ass all over town, buying groceries and picking up suits.
The second message didn’t improve her temper. It was Cheryl, the production assistant from Beech. ‘Hi, Abby, it’s Cheryl. Sorry to bother you but there’s been a change of plan on the shooting schedule next week. Instead of shooting in Dublin on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday, we’re just doing Wednesday and Thursday. I’ll phone you later in the week with the details and we’ll change your plane ticket and hotel reservation. Byee.’
Why did things change now? Abby had had to reschedule a lucrative private decluttering job from Monday and Tuesday simply so she could fit in the TV show. The client hadn’t minded but Abby had to delay the work several weeks, which she hated doing. If she hadn’t been so irritated by the first two messages, she might not have responded to the last one.
‘Hello, stranger. I can’t stop thinking about meeting you.’
The gravelly, late-night sound of Jay’s voice was so seductive. Abby put a finger in her mouth and nibbled her nail nervously, uncaring that she was ruining her polish.
‘Do you think there’s any chance we might have that dinner we promised ourselves? We’ve a lot to catch up on, after all. Please call, Abby. I’ll be waiting.’ He’d never even said who it was, she realised, but he’d known she’d recognise him. For a moment, she gazed out at the traffic, possibilities running through her head. Then she took a deep breath, hit the message button, and clicked until she reached ‘return call’. When the phone had rung six times, Abby decided it was fate. She’d leave a polite message and tell him, no, she was busy, but maybe they’d have that dinner for the four of them one day, her and Tom and Jay and Lottie…
‘Hello, Abby.’ It was Jay.
‘How did you know it was me?’ she asked stupidly.
‘I’ve got you programmed into my phone. Your name appears on the screen when you phone and I’m so glad you did.’
A silly grin spread across Abby’s face at the thought of Jay going to the bother of programming her number into his phone.
‘So, dinner?’ he said easily. ‘Just you and me, I mean.’
Abby suddenly felt grateful to Cheryl and didn’t stop to think about how the chatty dinner for four had suddenly become an intimate dinner for two. ‘I’m going to be in Dublin on Tuesday of next week. I was supposed to be filming, but I’m not,’ she blurted. ‘I mean, we could meet or –’
‘We’ll think of something,’ he interrupted silkily and Abby felt that exquisite quiver of pleasure ripple through her body. ‘Where are you staying?’
‘McGregor’s Townhouse,’ bleated Abby. McGregor’s was a small but beautifully formed hotel in the centre of Dublin. All the Beech staff stayed there and since the show had become successful, Abby somehow got the best room. Last time she stayed, she’d been upgraded to a junior suite, complete with cast-iron four-poster – an extravagance that she knew Beech had certainly not paid for. She must ask Cheryl to keep the reservation unchanged.
‘I’ll phone you there on Tuesday afternoon,’ Jay said, and he was gone.
Abby was left staring at her phone, unsure as to whether guilt or wild excitement was the primary emotion surging through her heart.
To save petrol – and money – Lizzie started to walk to work. The first week of April turned out to be so glorious that the two-mile walk to the centre of town was a pleasure. On Friday, the forecasters had predicted record temperatures for the time of year, and even at half-past eight in the morning, the sun was warm, reminding Lizzie of holidays in foreign climes. As she walked past the tiny town park with her sunglasses on and only a light jacket over her shoulders, Lizzie could almost convince herself that she was on holiday. Somewhere exotic, like the Adriatic coast of Italy, where men appreciated women with a bit of meat on their bones. Years ago, she and Myles had been on holiday in Italy, and Lizzie’s confidence had soared at the admiring looks she received from all and sundry.
Gwen and Shay were off on their cruise in a couple of days and despite everything she’d said, Lizzie was sorry she wasn’t going with them. Imagine real sweltering sun on her face and the scent of coconut sun lotion on warmed, relaxed skin. She tried to put holidays out of her mind on the grounds that she couldn’t afford one, and turned her thoughts instead to the wedding.
Debra, in tactful mode, had mentioned that Dad would like Sabine to come to the afters, which was the informal bit following the reception, when the band would play and people who hadn’t been invited to the main event turned up to admire the happy couple. Only if Lizzie didn’t mind, Debra added.
Lizzie minded like hell, but her mothering instincts came to the fore as usual. ‘Do you mind?’ she’d asked Debra, worried that the introduction of another person into the family dynamics might upset Debra’s big day. After all, Debra had been devastated about the divorce, and, as a true father’s girl, she might find it a betrayal too far to see Myles with another woman.
‘Well, I don’t mind her being there. She’s not pretty or anything,’ Debra said blithely, content as long as her father’s new girlfriend wasn’t in danger of stealing her thunder on the day. ‘She’s got mousy, reddish hair, mousy eyelashes and doesn’t wear lipstick. I saw a photo of her at Dad’s. And she’s old. Certainly in her forties.’
Lizzie considered this information mournfully. Sabine clearly wasn’t a red-hot mama, and if she appeared discreetly at the afters, nobody would faint into their gin at the sight of Myles Shanahan’s girlfriend. They’d be pleased, probably, that nice old Myles had found someone.
The only problem was that then they’d begin to realise that Lizzie would be there on her own. The happy and civilised Lizzie and Myles partnership, which had survived the earthquake of divorce, was over. Myles had moved on. Lizzie hadn’t.
Lizzie didn’t like people talking about her and she certainly didn’t like them feeling sorry for her. That was why she resented Sabine’s existence.
Outside the surgery, Lizzie caught sight of Clare Morgan’s indolent ginger cat, Tiger, delicately walking along the garden fence to find a hot spot to lie in.
‘Hello, Tiger, you gorgeous thing,’ she called.
Typically, Tiger pirouetted off the fence at just that moment and Lizzie was left facing Mr Graham, the solicitor whose office was joined on to the surgery and who was now standing open-mouthed on the far side of the fence, his car keys dangling limply in his hand. Lizzie hadn’t seen him in time and she flushed at the thought that he’d imagined she’d called him Tiger. Mr Graham was as round as he was tall, and had both overwhelming halitosis and the misplaced conviction that he was something of a ladies’ man.
‘Sorry…talking to the cat…’ she mumbled, before rushing into the surgery in a lather of embarrassment.
Oh