“Alright already! Calm down. My mammy always did say I had a theatrical streak. I get it from Granny McGuire, apparently. But bloody hell, Rebecca, your life could never be described as dull!”
“I wish it were dull,” she answered flatly, scuffing at the carpet with her boots.
Derbhilla ignored Rebecca’s attempt at sympathy; there was gossip. “An affair, you say. Tell me now, who with?”
With an air of sufferance, Rebecca looked up. “Are you ready? It will make your eyes pop out.”
Once Derbhilla’s eyes returned to their rightful size, the girls spent the next half hour gainfully employed in trashing Rebecca’s brother-in-law. Then, having exhausted that topic for the time being, Derbhilla asked, “So when are you going?”
“Just as soon as I can get the flights sorted. To be honest, it will be a relief to get away from here for a couple of weeks.”
Her friend smiled sympathetically, knowing what Rebecca was inferring. “I can see where you’re coming from, but you have to admit that you and Spotty James is a pretty darn juicy piece of gossip. If it weren’t to do with you, we’d be lapping it up.”
“I know,” she acknowledged mournfully.
“Still,” Derbhilla said brightly, “you’re away for a whole fortnight. Someone’s bound to get up to something disgusting with someone else in that time and then you’ll be old news.”
“That’s of great comfort to me, thank you.”
Though Derbhilla was probably speaking the truth, it didn’t diminish the fact that right now felt like the longest day of Rebecca’s life. And if she had to listen to one more catty giggle from where she sat with her head lowered behind her desk, Derbhilla would have to hold her back from thumping somebody.
Both girls jumped as they heard a door open but carried on yakking as the easygoing Piaras meandered by them, oblivious of the fact that neither secretary was doing any work.
“Do you think I should wait until after lunch to ask Ciaran for the time off?” Rebecca asked while gnawing down her thumbnail.
“Definitely. Men are always more receptive to things on a full stomach,” Derbhilla answered with a knowing flick of her long, dark hair. “Besides, he’s going to be in that meeting with your Miller Group man for most of the morning, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Right, so why not get on his good side by being Wonder PA?”
Rebecca stared at her friend blankly. Surely she wasn’t suggesting Rebecca wear a tiara and a red, white, and blue leotard to take dictation?
Derbhilla rolled her eyes. “Do I have to spell it out to you, woman?”
“Um, yes please.”
“Offer to go and get him one of those spicy lamb wraps he likes from O’Connell’s. And while you’re at it, make mine a chicken Caesar.”
Much later that morning, after they’d tackled their respective typing piles for at least ten minutes, Derbhilla suddenly threw her headset aside as yet another distressing thought occurred to her. “You won’t be here for the races!”
From behind her computer screen, Rebecca sighed. It was bloody hopeless; she’d just rewound and played the same sentence at least five times. Pushing her headset down round her neck, she was just in time to hear a panicked screech, “So who am I going to pick apart all the other women’s outfits with?”
“How about Pariah?” Rebecca shrugged as a dark head popped round the desk partition.
“Oh piss off, Rebecca!”
“Look, Derbhilla, you’ll still have a good time. Shane will be with you, won’t he?” She was referring to her friend’s husband of two years.
“Yes and don’t get me wrong, I love him dearly, but the reason he is going to the races is to watch the horses, not the women.” She paused as she realised what she’d just said before adding darkly, “At least he had better be going to watch the horses.”
Rebecca laughed at her friend’s frown of consternation. Shane Murphy, with his unruly shock of red hair and cheeky, green eyes, only had eyes for his wife. “Of course he’ll be watching the horses. Liz Hurley could walk past in the nude and Shane would be too busy gazing at you to notice.”
Derbhilla smiled, semi-mollified. “It’s not going to be the same without you, though. Shane might be my partner in life, but you, my friend, are my partner in crime.”
Rebecca felt a twinge of guilt at letting her friend down at the last minute, but there was nothing she could do about it because when push came to shove, family came first.
Chapter Five
“COME IN,” CIARAN ANSWERED the knock on his door later that afternoon. By the gruffness of his invitation, it was apparent that he was in a foul temper. That prat from the Miller Group kept him hard at it all morning. He’d just heard via the Fitzpatrick & Co. bush telegraph, Tania on reception, that his PA had been up to no good on the weekend. The worst thing was that it was with that little git James, of all people. For chrissakes, he growled to himself. The boy was nearly half her age. What was she thinking? Not that it was any of his business what she chose to do in her spare time; she was his PA, not his girlfriend. She had made that very clear, taking off the next morning the way she had after their little dalliance last year. Oh, speak of the devil. His frown deepened as Rebecca peered tentatively round his door; here she was now and with lunch. Well, well, well—would wonders never cease?
Fifteen minutes later, he was feeling marginally better as he tossed the sauce-sodden paper bag into the wastepaper basket under his desk. He was just wiping his mouth with a napkin when Rebecca poked her head round his door once again, clutching a mug of coffee.
“Everything alright?” She was referring to the spicy lamb wrap that he’d just polished off.
“Yeah, ta for that. I didn’t think I’d get time for lunch today. Not after that wanker from Miller’s decided to take up my whole morning.” He put the napkin down and fished, “So how was your head on Saturday morning?”
She refused to take the bait and smiled sweetly. “Fine, thanks—how was the rest of your weekend?”
Butter wouldn’t melt, thought Ciaran. If that was the way she wanted to play it, then so be it because two could play at that game. “Great apart from losing a tenner to Jordy because he thrashed me at tenpin bowling again.” Jordy was a ten-year-old boy who had been dealt a crappy hand in life thanks to his dad buggering off when he was barely out of nappies. He’d left Jordy and his mother, along with her four other children, to struggle on alone. Ciaran, who could relate to coming from a large family but a large family with pots of money, had felt that being a “big brother” was the least he could do to help kids like Jordy.
Rebecca had found it hard to picture her gigolo boss in the role of caring mentor when he’d told her about Jordy. She’d seen a different side to him, though, when he’d brought the young boy up to the office to say hi for the first time. His natural rapport with him was obvious, and it was a side to Ciaran she liked. “Bowling sounds like fun and you’re welcome for lunch. I can’t have my boss working on an empty stomach all afternoon, now can I? Oh, I almost forgot—here’s your coffee, just the way you like it, with plenty of milk.” She placed the mug on his desk and then took a seat across from him.
Ciaran eyed her speculatively. His PA she might be, but lunch and coffee weren’t usually in the cards unless International Secretaries Day was looming, and she was pumping for something really big this year. Still, he might as well enjoy it while it lasted because, knowing her, it wouldn’t last long.
“Um, Ciaran?” Rebecca hedged, “Well, you see, the thing is, I need some time off. I wouldn’t ask except that it’s a family emergency. I’ve already spoken to HR, and they have a temp who can step in for me. Her name’s Kate and she’s a Kiwi too, so if you close your eyes you won’t even know I’m gone. Oh, and I’m sorry about stuffing up the arrangements for Galway.” Rebecca finished her sentence in one big gulp as her boss drained the mug of instant coffee she’d made him.
He plonked it down on his desk with a sigh.
He was right; it was too good to be true.
Rebecca crossed her legs and began twiddling her hair nervously. It was short notice; what if he said she couldn’t have the time off? Ciaran was easygoing, but he hadn’t earned the title of senior partner in one of Ireland’s largest law firms by being a pushover either. Nor by being neat, she thought as her eyes swept over the room. It was less than a week since she’d last tidied up in here, and there were already stacks of overflowing files lying on the floor in no particular order of urgency.
Ciaran had obviously attempted to sling his jacket onto the little lemon-coloured sofa sitting over by the window—the view from which denoted his position of power within the firm—but missed. No wonder he always looked crumpled, she thought ruefully. Mind you, that “just rolled out of bed” look was part of what made him so appealing. With his dark head bent forward as he checked the dates she’d requested on her holiday form against those in his diary, she noticed how tousled his hair was. It must have been a stressful morning, she gathered, reflecting on his unconscious habit of raking his fingers through his hair when he felt under pressure. While working for him, she had picked up on his mannerisms and learned how to read him—which came in handy at times like this. She looked fondly at his little boy’s cowlick and nearly had to sit on her hands to stop herself from reaching over to smooth it down.
She averted her eyes to the bomb site that was his desk, littered with everything from scrawled handwritten notes to a copy of today’s Irish Times—opened to the financial pages, of course. He slid open his top drawer to retrieve one of at least a dozen ballpoint pens. She couldn’t help but notice the two bottles of supersized White-Out, three boxes of paper clips, and an abundance of yellow Post-it pads he’d also squirrelled away in there. No wonder she and Derbhilla could never find a bloody pen when they needed one!
Ciaran had a well-known penchant for raiding the stationery cupboard. He claimed to get away from his desk for a few minutes to fossick in it helped him clear his head. Gives him an excuse to relive his sexual conquests, more like, she thought contemptuously. The whole office had heard the rumour about him and that overenthusiastic temp who’d done more than get a box of paperclips out of the cupboard for him. It had been before her time and was the stuff of office legends. It made her feel justified in not having hung on the morning after their short-lived tryst, too. She’d have only been giving him a chance to put another notch on his belt—or should that be a bottle of White-Out in his drawer?
“Penny for your thoughts.” Ciaran snapped his fingers and, as he leaned towards her, Rebecca heard the soft creaking of genuine leather from his standard issue partner’s chair. Seeing his quizzical expression, she stopped twiddling her hair and straightened in her standard issue secretary’s chair, feeling the fabric of it snag her tights as she did so. Buggeration! Thoroughly annoyed—they were brand-new on that morning—she squirmed around in her seat to investigate the damage. Spying Ciaran’s bemused expression, she forced herself to stop fixating on her pantyhose and answer her boss.
“Uh sorry, run in my, er...I was miles away then. It’s the shock of the news from home, you see.” A little white lie, sure, but more palatable than talking about her hosiery or bringing up the whole office supply room debacle again and she’d die before she ever mentioned their one-night stand.
She spared Ciaran none of the gory details, however, regarding the state of the Carltons’ marriage, and as her explanation came to a close, he splayed his hands out flat on the form in front of him. Rebecca looked down at them admiringly. They were strong, manly hands with no sign of that limp-wristed look with which men in suits are often afflicted. Glancing up, she fell into a pair of sooty brown eyes until, catching a twinkle in them, she felt her face flush. Don’t say he’d heard about Spotty James too? she wondered. Then, as he continued his nonverbal glimmer, she felt a surge of annoyance. So what if he had? He was in no position to judge her one measly misdemeanour. Not when he was Fitzpatrick & Co.’s reigning king of drunken office liaisons.
As it happened, Ciaran’s twinkling did have something to do with James but not in the way she was thinking. If Rebecca were to go home for two weeks, it would more likely than not put the kibosh on any budding relationship between the two of them. He would be doing her, not to mention himself, a favour by signing the form off. With his ballpoint pen hovering tantalizingly over the form, he asked, “So, this Kiwi Kate, is she good-looking then?”
“Ciaran!”
He held both his hands up in front of him and, for the first time that day, grinned. His smirk revealed his utmost pleasure in winding Rebecca up as his eyes grazed over her puckered mouth. “I was only joking!”
“You’re hilarious.” Rebecca applauded flatly. “Now can I have the time off or not?”
“Ah, go on then. I don’t suppose it will matter too much seeing as I’ll be away for half the time you’ll be away.”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll all have a great time regardless.” Looking down at her tightly clasped hands resting on her lap, the unwelcome thought whirled around in her head that he’d hardly have time to think about her—especially with Pariah drooling all over him. She’d do her utmost to make her partner’s wife fantasy a reality.
The sudden intensity in his voice surprised her as he said, “No, Rebecca, it won’t be the same without you.”
Unsure of how to react, she instinctively flicked a non-existent piece of lint off her skirt. He must have sensed her unease, for Ciaran swiftly signed the form and held it out to her. “Admirable quality—putting family first over fun.”
“Yes, well, my sister might not agree that it’s one of my strongest points,” she muttered.
When she didn’t elaborate further, he asked, “So, you’ll be looking after your niece and nephew?”
She eyed him suspiciously and, yes, just as she’d suspected, he was smirking. “Don’t look at me like that. I am perfectly capable of handling a three-year-old and a seven-year-old, you know.” She offered a mischievous smile. “It will be a doddle after looking after you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “Fair play to you. Don’t get me wrong, Rebecca. I have total faith in your abilities. One thing, though?” She eyed him expectantly. “Promise you’ll email me while you’re away?” Then, seeing the surprise register on her face, he hastily added, “To fill me in on the craic like.”
She felt vaguely disappointed, though what she had expected him to say she didn’t know. “Huh? What craic? I’ll be far too busy being a responsible auntie to have fun.”
Snatching up the form with a mumbled thanks, she got to her feet. She stalked out of the room, not breaking her stride as he called after her, “Hey Rebecca, did you know you’ve a run in your stockings?”
Just what was he doing, looking at her legs?
TWO DAYS LATER, REBECCA flung her handbag down on her desk. Flopping back into her chair, she kicked off the black stilettos that added at least another two inches to her legs. Not the ideal choice of footwear for legging it halfway across the city, she thought, wriggling her toes. Jennifer had kept her side of the bargain and transferred the money through as they’d agreed over the phone. Fiona, her favourite travel agent at the Henry Street Branch of Thomas Cook from where she’d just picked her tickets up, had been brilliant arranging the flights at such short notice too. After that, she’d whizzed in to see Tarquin, grateful that he had been able to squeeze her in for a trim and blow wave thanks to a last-minute cancellation.
He had, as usual, been resplendent in skin-tight black from head-to-toe. When he’d finished working his magic, he held up a mirror so Rebecca could admire his artistry from all angles. Looking pleased with himself, he declared her hair to be, “Perfectionnement!”
“Wow, it looks so much better!” she enthused, twisting and turning as he preened. It did, too. Her dark blonde hair grazed her shoulders, shiny and full of bounce.
Placing the mirror on the spotless countertop, Tarquin held a finger up to his li
ps as if he was about to share a great secret with her. Rebecca sat up straight, her ears cocked for either juicy gossip or an invaluable hairdressing tip.
“Now, watch closely, chérie, because I will show you zis only once.” He flung his arm in the direction of the salon’s glass frontage and declared, “The weather out zere, it is not good, right?”
Huh? What was he going on about? It had been blue skies, and the sun had been shining when she first left the office. In fact, she remembered donning her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the numerous hairy, white male chests on display in St. Stephen’s Green. What was it with Irish men? A teensy weensy bit of sunshine and they whipped their shirts off as though they were in the middle of an African drought. It didn’t concern them in the least if the goods they were displaying were seriously faulty.
Shuddering at the memory, she followed the direction of Tarquin’s eyes to where an assortment of shoes danced through freshly formed puddles on the worn cobbled paving. It was totally peeing down. Why was she so surprised? Ireland, after all, was home to the handbag with the inbuilt umbrella, or so she wished. Once again, she vowed to get that idea patented. Swivelling back to face the mirror, she returned his gaze steadily until he was satisfied that he had her full attention.
“Zis means all my hard work could be wiped out,” he made the same swishing motion as before, “like zis! So, if you get back to work with flat air, you will need to do zis.” With the flourish of a magician, he pulled, seemingly from thin air, a tiny white bottle. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “Zis is ze serum.”
Unexpectedly, he swung his head down towards his knees. Straining to hear the next bit, she leaned over the side of her chair. “Spray ze roots of ze air like zis,” he mumbled, demonstrating a spraying motion by making a sort of shushing noise as he pretended to squirt the serum onto his roots. The charade over, he reared upright once more and, looking for all the world like a peroxide blonde porcupine, clapped his hands together. “Voila! Your oomph is restored. Chérie wishes to purchase, oui?”
Michelle Vernal Box Set Page 62
