self-promotion tool. Their social media followers loved
their happy family image. There was power in their brand,
and her perfume and clothing lines would ensure her
continued success. It was just as well, given the menial
acting parts she was being offered these days. Younger,
more inexperienced actresses were stepping into leading
lady roles that she could easily play. Sheridan knew she
was not the easiest person to work with. Several producers
had complained that she was too high-maintenance, and
said they would not hire her again. If only she could be
more like Daniel, who was more amenable when producers
came knocking on his door. He lived by one rule: that
the people you pissed off on the way up in this industry
met you on the way down. They could either give you a
foot back up that ladder or kick it from beneath your feet.
Sheridan knew that Daniel could never go back to his
old life in England. Working as an actor was all-consuming, but the buzz was like nothing else on earth. He craved the
excitement of not knowing what was around the corner,
and of taking over his character’s role. It was like living 90
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several lives at once, and being able to do things he would never get away with in the real world. He was an assas-sin, a spy, a villain and a dad. He had met all his heroes, people he was proud to call his friends. Daniel Watson
and Sheridan Sinclair were deemed Hollywood’s most
powerful showbiz couple. Were they rocking the boat
by asking for more? How would the introduction of Roz
affect their family dynamics? Sheridan had a personality
that did not gel with everyone. Strong and unpredictable,
how would she get along with this young woman from
Ireland who had never even travelled on a plane?
91
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Roz
I twisted my silver Claddagh ring as I sat on the edge of
my bed. At least my afternoon shower had left me feeling
fresh again. My rumbling stomach reminded me it had
been hours since I’d eaten, but I had too many butterflies
floating around to think about food now. My thoughts
wandered to Dympna. Perhaps it was intuition, but I felt
a tug, a calling to home. I stared at the telephone on the
bedside table. What time was it in Dublin? Weren’t they
five hours ahead? But a call home would surely show
up on an itemised bill. I should have been honest about
having a friend. How would I get by without speaking to
Dympna? Why had I lied in the first place? I bit down on
my lip harder than intended, wincing as I felt the pinch.
The mobile, I thought, pain clarifying my thoughts. I could have used my own phone, but that would give an
open invitation for Dympna to call me back. It would be
better to call from the mobile she’d given me. Or, better
still, send a text.
Retrieving the phone from the folds of my suitcase, I
mentally prepared my text. Relief flooded my system as I
switched it on to see no missed calls. My thumbs worked
quickly as I tapped in the words, Landed safely. Flew first 92
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class, limo brought me to hotel! No need to worry, all is well.
Meeting the couple soon. Hope all is good with you XX.
I checked my watch. I had an hour to kill. A short
walk around the block couldn’t do any harm. I smiled
to myself. I had only just landed in America and already
I was using their terms. After whizzing down to the
ground floor in the lift, I was soon breathing in the smell of the city streets. It was a far cry from Dublin, which
carried the tang of the River Liffey on a warm day. New
York city assaulted my senses, bombarding me with a
cacophony of sounds and smells. There was no standing
still as crowds of people walked shoulder to shoulder to
a backdrop of beeping taxi horns. I inhaled the scent of
street vendors, of popcorn and hotdogs mingled with car
exhaust fumes. I became part of the tide of people, my
horizons expanding with each step I took. Following
the signs, I headed towards Times Square. I still couldn’t
believe how warm it was for November and I was glad I
had changed out of my sweaty clothes.
‘Can you spare me twenty dollars so I can get a job?’
The request came from a skinny, toothless man, but his
words made me stop in my tracks. He must have only
been in his thirties, but it looked like life had hit him hard.
‘How can twenty dollars get you a job?’ I asked,
with genuine curiosity. I had managed to get to the cash
machine in the hotel foyer, but I had so little money and
every note was precious to me.
The man scratched his unshaven face, buying himself
a few extra seconds to come up with a believable response.
Grinning, he lifted his chequered shirt. I followed his gaze to his midriff, and saw that his weather-worn jeans were
held up by a plastic bag tied around the loops.
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Caroline Mitchell
‘I can’t get a job with my trousers hanging off. Twenty
dollars will buy me a belt.’
I snorted a laugh. At least the beggars in Ireland were
content with a couple of euros. In New York, they aimed
high.
‘I don’t have a job either, so that makes two of us,’
I replied. I unpeeled two dollars from the small fold of
notes in my pocket and pressed them into his palm.
‘Good luck,’ the guy said with a gap-toothed smile.
‘You’re a long way from home.’
Indeed, I was, and it became more evident with every
step I took into Times Square. The buildings were high
above my head as giant ads and neon signs fought for my
attention. It felt closed in but marvellously impressive at the same time. Ireland was changing, but progress was
slow, and New York felt like a different planet by com-
parison. I tried to train myself not to jump every time a
taxi beeped its horn, and to watch for the flashing lights
telling me how many seconds I had to cross the road.
Doubling back, I strolled through Bryant Park, taking
comfort in the seasonal gardens. The vibe was more re-
laxed here and I watched couples playing with children,
people sitting at reading stations and others playing chess.
How different this was to my upbringing in Ireland. A
world away from my life. What was in store next?
* * *
I had just got back to the room when a sharp knock on
the door made my heart jump up into my throat. I had
counted the hours to meeting my mystery couple, but
now I felt glued to the spot. It had to be the PA. Inhaling a deep breath, I forced myself to open the door.
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‘It’s about time, dear. I was beginning to think you
weren’t in. You’re Roz, I presume?’ A short Asian man
bustled inside, his eyes dancing around the room. His
black hair was gelled into a small wave over his forehead,
and he wore his navy suit with a slim purple tie. He had
a face made for smilin
g, but his eyes were determined,
lacking any real warmth.
‘Yes … Sorry,’ I said. Already, he was telling me off
and I didn’t even know his name. ‘Are you the PA?’
‘Goodness, don’t look so scared!’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m
George, not the big bad wolf.’ He held out his hand.
I gripped it with terrified enthusiasm.
‘Nice firm handshake,’ he smiled, shaking his fingers as
I let go. ‘Now, are you sure you’re OK? Because you look
like you’re about to faint.’ He looked me up and down, his
eyes resting on my stomach, which was still relatively flat.
‘Sorry,’ I said again. Why was I apologising? ‘It’s my
first time in America and I’m a bit overwhelmed. I don’t
know where I’m going or what I’m meant to do.’
‘Ah.’ He looked at me knowingly. ‘It explains why
you’re wearing that.’
My smile faded. I had changed into my jeans – white
ones, which I’d complemented with a flowery blouse.
From the look on George’s face, anyone would think I
was wearing a bin bag.
‘Have you got anything else to wear?’ He made his
way to my wardrobe. ‘I’m presuming you’d like to im-
press this couple.’
‘I … I was told to pack light,’ I stuttered, watching
him throw back my hangers and sort through my things.
There wasn’t a lot there, so it didn’t take long. He tutted at my paltry offering. ‘Haven’t you any designer shops
in Ireland? Or maybe we should go for a subtler look.’
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Caroline Mitchell
‘We have plenty of designer outlets,’ I retorted, feeling
my cheeks burn. ‘I just can’t afford to shop in them. And
I don’t see the point in pretending to be something I’m
not.’ My annoyance was evident in my voice. I’d promised
myself a long time ago that I would not be treated like a
second-class citizen again.
George raised his perfectly formed eyebrows as he
glanced my way. ‘Ooh, sassy, I like it. How about…’ He
pushed a hangar aside. ‘This.’
The white knee-length dress was relatively new, and
I was keeping it for a special occasion. It was linen with
tiny flowers above the seams, and still a good fit.
‘If you think it’s best,’ I said haughtily.
‘I do, darling. I’m just trying to help, and we do have
a little time to kill. Now, take off that make-up so I can
redo your face. It’s too vampy for my liking. Utterly gor-
geous, but first impressions count.’ He tilted his head to
one side. ‘You need to be more of a girl next door.’
Sitting me at my dresser, he proceeded to rifle his way
through my make-up bag. There was no point in argu-
ing, and he seemed to know his way around a make-up
brush. I was relieved I’d invested in a new palette, rather than bringing my grubby cosmetics from home.
‘Is this all you have?’ he said, picking up the packet of
Boots make-up remover wipes. ‘Darling, you must cleanse,
tone, moisturise with Clarins at the very least. You may
have perfect skin now, but it won’t always be that way.’
I mumbled something about my baggage allowance
as I wiped the foundation off my face. I wanted to dislike
him, but I found myself warming to his brutal honesty.
Besides, he was right; I had overdone it, and red lipstick was probably not the best choice when I had been coming across as holier than thou up until now.
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‘Have you just straightened your hair?’ he said, after
applying a gentler coating of make-up to my face.
‘Um … yes, I…’
He plucked my hair straighteners from my bag and
plugged them in to the hotel travel plug. ‘Mind if I soften it with a little wave?’
He would be undoing all my hard work, but again,
I agreed.
My hair and make-up complete, I heard George chuck-
le as I went into the bathroom to dress. Dympna used to
call me a prude, but I valued my privacy. Besides, I had
known George for all of twenty minutes.
I surveyed my face in the mirror. He had done a good
job. When I emerged from the bathroom, he had found
a pair of white sandals in the back of the wardrobe and
instructed me to slip them on.
‘Better,’ he said, tapping his chin. ‘Have you any
decent sunglasses?’
‘Only ones I bought in Penny’s for five euros,’ I replied.
I hadn’t thought I’d need them at this time of year. I was
beginning to feel like I was playing the starring role in
an episode of Pretty Woman. But I had to admit, when it came to makeovers, George knew his stuff. I could see
how nice it would be, having him around.
He checked his watch, which glinted gold on his
wrist. ‘There’s a Sunglasses Hut not far from here. I’ll
buy you a pair.’
I opened my mouth to protest, but George raised his
hands in the air. ‘We’ve got to give you a little bit of class, darling, and you won’t be financially embarrassed for long, not if this works out. You’ve landed on your feet here.’
‘I’m not in it for the money,’ I said, pocketing my key
card as I prepared to leave.
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Caroline Mitchell
‘And I’m not here to judge.’ He picked up some blusher
and gave my cheeks the once-over. ‘Nice,’ he said, step-
ping back to admire his work. ‘You have beautiful cheek-
bones, but it’s best to keep the look as natural as possible.
We don’t want the lady of the house feeling threatened,
now, do we?’
‘Threatened? By me?’ I burst into laughter. ‘You’re
codding.’ George frowned ever so slightly, and I realised
he wasn’t familiar with the term. I cleared my throat. ‘I
mean, you’re joking, right? I’m no threat to anyone.’
‘And that sort of naiveté will knock them dead.’ He
checked his watch again. ‘C’mon, we can’t keep them
waiting. We’ve got lots to do.’
I wrung my fingers, feeling rooted to the spot. ‘Can
you tell me who they are? Please. I’m so nervous, not
knowing who I’m going to meet. Can you at least give
me a clue?’
George pursed his lips, looking left and right, even
though we were alone in the room. ‘They’re a Hollywood
couple, actor and actress. Very famous.’
My mouth formed in an O at this news. For some
reason I’d got it into my head that they were politicians,
pop stars or presenters in the public eye.
George fiddled with his phone before meeting my
gaze. ‘They’re outrageously wealthy and very handsome,’
he continued. ‘Your baby will want for nothing if this
comes good. Everything hangs on you, so don’t blow it.’
He took in my expression and gave me a sympathetic
smile. ‘It’s fine to be nervous, just…’ he sighed. ‘Don’t
interrupt when they talk to you. Keep your eyes off the
man of the house. Be polite, gracious, and keep that
good firm handshake. I have a feeling they’re going to
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The Perfect Mother
like you. And that blonde hair of yours … it’s going to
blow them away.’
‘My hair?’ I ran my fingers through the tips of my
blonde waves. ‘Why?’
‘You’ll see soon enough. Now, come along, we’ve got
sunglasses to buy and an attorney to meet.’
‘Attorney?’ I echoed his words. ‘I thought we were
meeting the couple.’
‘You’ve got a confidentiality agreement to sign first.
I’ll explain on the way.’
My heart was beating like a drum. I had not agreed
to anything officially, so what did they want me to sign?
And what did George mean about keeping my eyes off
the man of the house?
99
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Dympna
Dympna stared out the rain-speckled window, feeling
as if one of her limbs had been cut off. The fact she had
not parted on the best of terms with Roz left a sour taste
in her mouth. One of her earliest memories was sitting
next to her in the school playground and peering into
her lunchbox to discover the odd things wrapped in
there. The box was an old biscuit tin, battered from use.
Dympna had watched Roz peel the crumpled tin foil to
discover a small rubber ball. Next to it was a half-packet
of dry crackers. There was no drink. Dympna hadn’t
understood. Was it some kind of joke? The last mystery
package contained a hard-boiled egg with a purple tinge.
‘Mammy gets mixed up,’ Roz said sorrowfully as she
pocketed the ball. ‘She’s not well.’
‘That’s OK,’ Dympna had replied.
Her daddy used to tell her stories about kids who had
it tough at home. Despite her early age, she’d understood
Roz’s predicament and hadn’t said another word. Opening
her lunchbox, she split her own lunch in half. Sandwiches,
juice, strawberries, cheese squares and carrot sticks – she’d had enough for a picnic for two.
Dympna used to envy her friend’s freedom. Roz
went to bed whenever she wanted and chose what time
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to get up. Looking back now, she could see that her
friend had got the short end of the stick. It was easy to
see where Roz’s anxieties stemmed from, but would
things have been any better if she’d been taken into
care? Dympna picked at the paint-chipped window
and barely heard Seamus enter the room. Her concerns
The Perfect Mother (ARC) Page 10
