Michelle Vernal Box Set

by Michelle Vernal

  The smaller the bottle, the dearer the price it would seem, but Rebecca had already decided she was not leaving without her gravity-defying serum. Tarquin dropped the tiny canister into a cute white paper bag with the word “Vertigo” stamped in black ink on it, and then took her proffered credit card.

  “You will not regret zis, chérie,” he gushed as though she were buying the elixir of life itself. Indeed, from his perspective, she supposed that life with flat “air” was simply not worth living. Signing the receipt, she averted her eyes from all the zeroes along the bottom of it.

  “Thanks for that, Tarquin,” adding automatically, “you’re the best.”

  Not unlike the practice of tipping, it was important to praise his efforts liberally if she wanted a decent haircut the next time she came. Something she’d learned the hard way, or rather, the too-short way. Pulling open the heavy glass door, she stepped out onto the wet pavement. She wondered, not for the first time, why it was that Tarquin, whom she knew for a fact was from Cork City, had a French accent. It was one of life’s little mysteries, she decided, popping her umbrella open.

  Glancing down at the gold oval of her watch face, she swore softly to herself. The ridiculously long hour and half’s break she had for lunch had flown by today, leaving her with ten minutes in which to get her feet parked back under her desk! Taking a preparatory breath for her trot back up Grafton Street, she passed by the familiar green logo of Marks and Sparks when she felt someone brush past her, exclaiming fiercely, “Watch it! You nearly took my eye out with that brolly!”

  Rebecca didn’t bother to look up as she muttered darkly, “Far better your eye than my hair, mate.”

  Making it back to the office with two minutes to spare, she had headed straight to the ladies’ to unleash her secret weapon and restore the oomph the damp day had all but destroyed. Hanging her head down over her knees, Rebecca aimed the serum at her roots as Tarquin had demonstrated. She’d just swung her head back up when the door creaked open.

  “Good look, Rebecca!” Pariah sniggered.

  Why did the silly cow always have to use the loos on their level? she griped, mentally cursing Tarquin as she frantically turned to the mirror, trying to smooth down the frizz that had just taken oomph to the next level.

  “What’s that? Can I have a squirt?” Pariah tossed her makeup bag onto the counter and snatching up the precious bottle, she squinted at the label.

  Not at forty bloody euros a pop, you can’t! Rebecca thought, lunging forward to reclaim it, but Pariah had already whipped the top off it and begun squirting and fluffing with a vengeance.

  “I’d rather you didn’t use it, Tania. It’s hellishly expensive stuff.”

  “Oh sorry, you should have said so.” Admiring her considerably fuller hair in the mirror, Pariah handed the serum back.

  Putting the considerably emptier bottle back in her handbag, Rebecca made one last-ditch attempt to smooth hers down. Then, mentally cursing the younger woman, she left her to finish her primping in private. She knew exactly for whose benefits Pariah was trowelling all that slap on.

  Now ensconced behind her desk, she was contemplating doing a spot of work when a broad Kiwi accent startled her. Hastily shoving her feet back into her shoes, she looked up.

  “G-day, I’m Kate. Grainne from HR sent me up.”

  Chapter Six

  KATE, REBECCA NOTED, had an open and attractive face sitting atop a solid build that matched her voice. Her much too pretty temporary replacement held her hand out in greeting and finishing her once-over, Rebecca replied, “Hi, Kate. I’m Rebecca.”

  Indicating a spare chair over by the filing cabinets, she suggested the younger girl grab it and pull up a pew. Derbhilla, who for once had a spare afternoon—Eileen would be tied up in a meeting for the afternoon—was trying to catch up on her filing backlog. She threw a smile over at the younger girl as she approached.

  “Hi, I’m Derbhilla. I sit on the other side of Rebecca’s desk.”

  “Kate,” the girl exchanged politely. “Nice to meet you. That means you must work for Eileen Donnell?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Kate grimaced. “Poor you. I’ve heard she’s a bit of a slavedriver.”

  “Can be,” Derbhilla agreed, tucking a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “I like to be busy though. It makes the day go fast.”

  Wheeling the chair back towards Rebecca’s desk, Kate tossed back cheerily, “Well, I doubt my days are going to drag either, working for Ciaran. He’s gorgeous! All the temps rate him a ten on the babe-a-scale.” She grinned, revealing slightly crooked front teeth that only served to make her face more interesting. “Either way, he’ll be a vast improvement on crusty old Fitzpatrick. I just finished a two-week stint covering for Orla Brennan, and I tell you what girls, I don’t know how she puts up with that awful wind problem of his.”

  Derbhilla’s jaw dropped. Kate obviously didn’t believe in mincing her words then, and she hadn’t finished yet.

  “Now Ciaran, he’s got that whole broody Colin Farrell thing going on.” She shivered exaggeratedly.

  The snort that erupted from Rebecca could have rivalled Vesuvius and Derbhilla glanced her way, her filing temporarily forgotten as she waited to hear what her friend would say.

  “Okay, so let me get this right—you think Ciaran looks like Colin Farrell?”

  “Yeah, don’t you, with those brown eyes of his and all that stubble?” Kate didn’t wait for a reply. “Are long, lingering, liquid lunches part of the job description then?”

  Rebecca’s flat “no” fell on deaf ears as Kate hugged herself gleefully. “I am so going to enjoy the next two weeks.”

  “So where are you from?” Rebecca inquired shortly, determined to change the subject. “I’m from Christchurch.”

  Kate looked sheepish. “Promise me no wisecracks because I’ve heard them all.”

  “Okay,” Rebecca answered hesitantly, now bemused.

  “Hamilton originally.” Kate glared as Rebecca guffawed. No wonder she’d looked sheepish. Blink and you’d miss it; Hamilton was hardly the Mecca of New Zealand.

  “You promised,” Kate said accusingly.

  “I didn’t say a word,” Rebecca replied honestly.

  “You didn’t have to.” Kate then offered a peace treaty grin. “I’d been living in London for the last five years, but Immigration finally cottoned onto the fact that my permit was well and truly up and booted me out.”

  “Bummer,” Rebecca replied sympathetically.

  “Yeah, it was. I didn’t want to go home, for obvious reasons.” The two women exchanged a smile. “But I was due to catch up with everybody and while I was home, I applied for a work permit here. It’s the next-best thing; all the ex-pats are doing it when their UK visas are up.” She finished with a shrug as Ciaran popped his head round his door.

  “Hey, Becs, could you...” Spying Kate, his voice trailed off as he sidled on over to check her out.

  Rebecca noticed his shirttails were hanging out of the back of his pants, and she had to resist the urge to tidy up his act and tuck him back in.

  “And who might you be?” he inquired with a raised eyebrow and impish grin. Perching himself familiarly on the edge of Rebecca’s desk, he eyed the newcomer with unabashed curiosity.

  His suit pants could do with a jolly good iron too. Rebecca frowned, thinking that on anyone else, an opening line like that would have sounded sleazy but flirting was in Ciaran’s DNA. His boyish looks would let him get away with murder and, if the dozy expression on her face was anything to go by, then Kate was lapping up his charm offensive.

  “I’m Kate and you are?” she replied with a coquettish bat of her eyelashes—already knowing who he was.

  Oh, for goodness’ sake. Rebecca rolled her eyes, and Derbhilla pretended to gag behind the filing cabinets. “Ciaran, this is Kate; Kate, this is Ciaran.” Her tone was businesslike because one of them had to act like a professional. “Kate is filling in for me while I am away.
” When Ciaran didn’t remove his butt from her desk and go back to his office, she added, “I was just about to show her the ropes, so if you don’t mind...” She made a shooing motion with her hand.

  Ciaran twiddled his tie that remained stubbornly askew and deliberately didn’t take the hint for the simple reason that he thoroughly enjoyed winding his PA up. Childish, he knew, but hey, weren’t women always on about men needing to grow up? Getting Rebecca to bite was worth it every time because he got to see those big hazel eyes of hers grow even more enormous with indignation. Turning his attention back to Kate, he decided to wind a little tighter. “Ah, so you’ll be the one looking after me while Rebecca here goes swanning off around the other side of the world.” It had the desired reaction.

  “Hardly swanning around, Ciaran! I told you I will have sole charge of my niece and nephew while I’m away.” Taking in his hangdog expression, she added, “And stop doing that puppy dog face thing. It won’t wash. You are more than capable of looking after yourself.” She wagged a finger in Kate’s direction. “Don’t let him con you into making him endless cups of coffee. Oh, and if he asks you to go to the bakery, make sure you tell him that he has two perfectly good legs of his own. Take my word for it, Kate—you give him an inch, he’ll take a mile.”

  Ciaran winked at Kate. “Don’t listen to Rebecca. She’s a firm believer in the tough love motif.” Then, catching a glimpse of the time on the clock behind Kate’s head, he shot off his perch as though something had just bitten him on the backside. “Shite and shit!” He disappeared into his office, reappearing with a stack of papers and his briefcase. As he sailed past them, shirttails flapping, he called, “Rebecca, I’m going to be late for my three o’clock in bloody Wicklow. Can you ring that old fart White and tell him I’ve been unavoidably delayed? I’ll think of an excuse on my way over there.” Waiting for the lift, he grinned over at her, simultaneously tucking his shirt into his pants—saving her a job. “Thanks, babe. You’re the best.” Then, seeing Kate slide into Rebecca’s seat, realisation dawned. He slapped a hand to his forehead. Double shite and shit! It was Rebecca’s last day.

  The lift doors opened, and he stepped in, holding them open with his free hand. “I was going to take you for a drink after work, but bloody White and his cronies have buggered that plan up. They’ve insisted on booking us into Malones for a celebration meal after we’ve signed the documents up. I can’t get out of it. I’m sorry. You take care of yourself and email me, alright?” He blew her a kiss. “Bon voyage. See you Monday,” he added, directing the last bit at Kate, who was all but drooling over him.

  Not much of a goodbye, Rebecca thought dejectedly as the lift doors slid shut. Her mood didn’t improve with Kate’s next comments either.

  “Wow, he is something.” Her eyes were still glued to the lift in hopes that he’d reappear. “No wonder all the girls think your job’s primo.”

  Rebecca chose to ignore Kate’s obvious crush and the afternoon whizzed by as she showed her temporary replacement the ropes, and before she knew it, the wall clock’s hands had crept around to five thirty.

  “I’ll drop this down to reception on my way out. Have a great trip home, Rebecca.” Snatching up the A4 envelope for the courier that evening, Kate stampeded over to the lift. “Say hi to the sheep for me and thanks for showing me the ropes,” she called over her shoulder.

  Humph. Kate obviously didn’t believe in staying a minute longer than she had to, Rebecca thought, conveniently forgetting that she was a firm believer in clocking out on time. Smiling as sweetly as she could through gritted teeth, she offered a cordial wave goodbye. “No worries, Kate.” Then, ducking her head because she just couldn’t bring herself to wish the girl good luck, she began busying herself by tidying all her personal bits and pieces away. Baa yourself and don’t make yourself too at home, she snarled silently, shoving her hand cream into her bag.

  She spied Derbhilla ogling her from over by the filing cabinets. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

  “I was wondering why it is that you’ve a face on you like a cat’s arse when you’ve just officially finished work for the next two weeks?”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do, actually. Are we feeling a little bit threatened perhaps?”

  “No!” she snapped a little too quickly. Now that was ludicrous. Kate was no threat to her job unless Derbhilla was referring to something else.

  “Ha, I knew it!” Derbhilla pounced. She gave the metal cabinet drawer a triumphant shove shut. “You’re jealous!”

  “I am not,” Rebecca shot back indignantly.

  “You needn’t worry, you know. She’s not his type—far too wholesome.”

  Rebecca picked up the tiny silver frame housing Jack and Hannah’s photo. With a heavy sigh, she accepted the fact that Derbhilla was probably talking such nonsense because, being somewhat of a newlywed, office romance was always on the woman’s mind. And so, she resigned herself to playing along, just to appease her friend. “And how would you know what Ciaran’s type is? From what I’ve seen, he doesn’t discriminate.”

  “Ah.” Derbhilla swatted the comment away with her hand. “He’s just sowing his seeds while he waits for the right woman to realise she’s been right under his nose all along.” Striding back to her desk to switch her computer off, she asked, “Now, do you want me to come and help you choose some tacky Irish trinkets to take home with you? Or are you going to sit there sulking all night?”

  Turning her computer off, Rebecca rose slowly from her desk. It felt strange knowing she wouldn’t be back tomorrow. If she were honest, though, what was odd was that she was feeling weird in the first place. Normally, the thought of being on holiday would have sent her linking arms with Derbhilla and running down the road, punching her fist up in the air, shouting, “YEEESSS!!!”

  As she picked up her handbag, she supposed she’d better leave a note for Ciaran with her contact details and remind him that she was planning on coming back.

  “I won’t be a sec.”

  Upon entering his room, she saw he’d left his computer on as usual, even though the IT gang had sent a memo around recently insisting everybody turn their PCs off at night. Typical Ciaran move—rules don’t apply to him. On the screen, brightly coloured fish swam lazily around, and she hit a random key.

  The bold black heading “80s Lyrics Quiz” blinked back at her. It took a moment to register what she was looking at, and when she did, she laughed loudly. How typical of Ciaran! He’d been industriously working his way through a very important music quiz when he’d popped his head round his door that afternoon. She scrolled down to find that he’d only gotten as far as number 20: “What is the only song by Australian band Men at Work to break the UK Top 20?” Or maybe he’d gotten stuck on that question? Perhaps that was what he had been going to ask her when he’d been sidetracked by Kate’s arrival. She grabbed a pen and scribbled her note, unable to resist adding a P.S. at the bottom: The answer’s “Land Down Under” (an Australian classic). Then, switching his computer off, she flicked the light switch and left the room.

  “WHAT A GORGEOUS NIGHT.” Rebecca stepped out into the warm evening air and paused to let it wash over her. The moment came to a screeching halt when Derbhilla tugged at her arm.

  “Come on; the sooner we get the shopping done, the sooner we can go for a pint. I am gasping.”

  The streets were alive with people, all enjoying the balmy weather and the good humour it brought with it. Linking arms, the two women pushed their way out into the throng.

  Within a half hour, Derbhilla had found an ideal gaudy addition to Rebecca’s shopping basket. “You have to buy this!” she exclaimed. They were standing in a garishly lit souvenir shop on O’Connell Street, and Derbhilla was holding up an apron emblazoned with a great big green, glittery shamrock. “It’s so awful that it’s perfect. What with the cooking school and everything.” Not wasting a moment waiting for Rebecca’s response, she tossed it into the basket and moved on
to tasteless souvenir number two. “Look at this!” She grabbed a glass dome off the crammed shelf in front of her and, blowing the dust off it, gave it a shake. Snow began to fall all around the wee leprechaun trapped inside. Rebecca wasn’t paying attention to her friend’s antics, though. Seeing the apron had taken her right back in time to the day Jennifer and Mark had made the offer for their new home.

  The flashy apron in Rebecca’s shopping basket was not only the reminder of Jennifer’s big news about the house purchase, but it attached a slightly traumatic relevance to it as well. It was several years ago now, and Rebecca had been waiting, not so patiently, for her sister and entourage to arrive at their parents’ house so she could begin hoeing into her lunch. It was a Loughton family tradition—the Sunday roast followed by a healthy dollop of Pamela’s pavlova. As the two girls had gotten older, the meal had gone from being a weekly occurrence to a fortnightly get-together until it got relegated to its current position of the second Sunday in every month. Seeing how it was the most nutritious meal she ate all month, Rebecca looked forward to it. This particular Sunday, with each and every hunger pang, she was getting more and more annoyed with her sister.

  Just as the spuds were beginning to stick to the roasting pan, Hurricane Jennifer whirled in through the front door, Mark and baby Jack the calm after the storm. “We’ve made an offer!” she’d shrieked. Their mother had clapped her hands in excitement, causing her freshly tinted ash-blonde curls to bob up and down. Pamela had been in the process of giving in to old age ungracefully when an episode of What Not To Wear aimed at the mature woman had spurred her into action. Having dyed—sorry, tinted—her hair, she’d gone on a rampage around their local shopping mall. Dick had been worried his wife was having an affair. She was forever saying she felt like a new woman, but she assured him it was all down to What Not To Wear’s Gestapo-like hosts, Trinny and Susannah. Pamela’s curls, however, were natural, and Jennifer had inherited these while Rebecca had her dad’s thinning mane to thank for her genes.