by Maeve Binchy
Mrs Ryan looked at her with narrowed eyes. ‘I’m sure your mother wouldn’t mind at all if you were to stay in a hotel,’ she said pleasantly.
‘No, no, no, I can’t. And anyway, Mother has a lot of bats in the house,’ she floundered wildly to Ted, ‘so that’s where I’ll be staying.’ Ted might not even have heard her.
‘So the odd thing was that when they thought they saw me, they asked at Reception was that me and Reception of course, God damn interfering nosey parkers that they are, said that Mr and Mrs Ted O’Connor were there.’
Rose said, ‘What did you do?’
‘I told them that suddenly at the last moment Susie couldn’t come and then Reception said did I want to move to a single room because it would be cheaper and I said yes, but then I’d rush up and pack my things and so I did and they’re in the back of the car, if you know what I mean.’
Rose looked at him. His face was scarlet, he looked like a madman talking to other very mad people. ‘If you get my drift,’ he roared.
Rose felt a sudden maturity sweep over her. She knew now that she had enough Excitement to last her a long time. On the grounds that she was helping Ted to park his car, she left with him, retrieved her suitcase. They were both too shocked to speak. She returned to the restaurant where the diners looked up with interest hoping for Round Two. Ted had given the red rose to Mrs Ryan.
‘I bought it for you,’ he had said without explanation. Nora Ryan saw nothing odd in this. In her youth it had happened a lot she said. Rose spoke courteously to her mother, planned the night in the house that she had forgotten was bat free and worked out what train to get back to Dublin and how to retrieve her car from beyond Newlands Cross. To begin what she hoped would be a fairly even-tempered and unexciting period of her life.
Cross Lines
MARTIN TAPPED HIS FINGERS IN IRRITATION ON THE PHONE. HE was unsure of where he was heading in this new and unfamiliar world of the Arts. There were already too many stresses involved in this whole business without having to part from Angie in such an unsatisfactory way. Beautiful Angie, why hadn’t she got up and pulled on a tracksuit? Why hadn’t she said she’d drive him to the airport, they’d have coffee and a croissant together, it would have been so good. It would have calmed him down, to have sat with Angie, looking into her big dark eyes, watching the passers-by envy him with this girl with the great mane of streaked hair and the big slow smile. He would have felt a million times more confident about the venture ahead, instead of edgy and jumpy.
In the next booth he saw one of those kind of career women he disliked on sight. Short practical hair-do, mannish suit, enormous briefcase, immaculate make-up, gold watch pinned to a severe lapel. She was making a heavy statement about being equal and coping in a man’s world. She was having a heated discussion with somebody on her telephone. Probably entirely unnecessary, shouting at someone for the sake of it. He would give Angie another three minutes and dial again. She had never been known to talk this long to anyone. And at 9.30 a.m.
Kay wished the man in the next phone box would stop staring at her, she had enough to cope with with one of Henry’s tantrums. She had explained to Henry over and over how important it was for her to be at the trade fair a day in advance, that way she could supervise the setting up of the stand, make sure they had the right position, the one they had booked near the entrance, see that the lighting was adequate, decorate the booth, get to know the neighbours on her right and left so that she could rely on them and call on their support once the doors opened and the day’s business began.
Henry had said he understood, but that was yesterday; today he was in one of his moods.
Kay would be gone for five days; she hated leaving him like this, it was so uncalled for, he had nothing to fear from her trip to another town. She would be far too weary and exhausted to consider going out partying at the end of a long day, all she would want was a warm little telephone conversation every night, reassuring her that he loved her, that he was managing fine but not so fine as he managed when she was around and how he greatly looked forward to Friday. She had called him at the office to try and dispel his mood before it got a grip on him.
It had been a mistake, Henry’s black disapproval came across the phone line loud and clear.
She had made her choice, she had decided for an extra day on this junket, and against going with him to his staff party. It was quite simple, she could take the consequences.
‘What consequences?’ Kay shouted, turning her back on the arty pseudo-Bohemian in the next phone box.
He was handsome, she supposed, in that vain peacock way that a lot of actors or showbiz people adopt, mannered and self-aware, stroking his cravat. The kind of man she most disliked. But it was increasingly hard to talk to Henry, the kind of man she most admired. He was showing none of those qualities that had marked him out when she first met him.
He pointed out that if Kay, his constant companion, was not going to bother to turn up at an important corporate gathering then he would regard himself as a single and unattached person with no commitments.
‘That’s blackmail of the worst kind.’ Kay was appalled at herself for reacting like a teenager.
‘The solution is in your hands,’ Henry said coldly. ‘Come back from the airport now and we will forget the whole incident.’ She hung up immediately, not trusting herself to speak to him.
Martin told himself that Angie’s deep sleep was always important to her, she was a model, her face had to be unlined, untired at all times. She must have taken the telephone off the hook. His brow cleared when he remembered this, only to darken again when he remembered that as he kissed her goodbye he had said he would call from the airport and she had said that would be super. Why, then, had she cut off his way of getting through to her?
Lost in their thoughts, neither Martin nor Kay realised that they had in fact been seated beside each other on the plane . . . They looked at each other without pleasure. Martin took out the long complicated report on Arts funding which he was going to have to explain to various theatrical and artistic organisations, all of which were going to brand him as a cultural philistine. Kay read a report on last year’s trade fair, and noted all the opportunities missed, contacts lost and areas of dissatisfaction.
Their elbows touched lightly. But they were unaware of each other. From time to time they lifted their eyes from the small print in their folders and Martin thought of all the times he had driven Angie to her modelling assignments and Kay remembered all the corporate functions in her firm that Henry had refused to attend without even the flimsiest excuse.
Above the clouds it was a lovely day, bright and clear. Kay felt her shoulders relaxing and some of the tension leaving her. They were far above the complications and bustle of everything they had left behind: buildings, traffic, rush, corporate functions. She breathed deeply. She wished they could stay up here forever.
At that moment Martin sighed too, and with the first sign of a pleasant expression that he had shown, he said that it was a pity they couldn’t stay up here forever.
‘I was just thinking that. At exactly this moment,’ Kay said, startled.
They talked easily, he of the problems ahead trying to convince earnest idealistic artists that he was not the voice of authority spelling out doom for their projects. He had been trying to dress like arty people as he knew that otherwise he would be dismissed as a Man in a Suit, which was apparently marginally better than being a child molester.
She told him of the poor results the company had achieved at last year’s promotion, and how this was her first year in charge. There were many in the organisation who hoped she would fail and she feared they would be proved right. She knew that people thought she had got the post through some kind of feminine charm; she was dressing as severely as she could to show them that she wasn’t flighty.
They were sympathetic and understanding. Martin told her what Henry never had, that perhaps she was overcompensating, making herself look too stern
and forbidding, killing off the good vibes she might otherwise have given.
Kay told Martin something that Angie had never thought of—that possibly the cravat might be over the top. There was the possibility that the disaffected artistic folk might think he was playing a role.
They fell into companionable silence in the clear empty blue sky.
Martin thought that Angie probably didn’t care about him at all, she cared only about her face, the magazine covers she appeared on and what bookings her agent might have for her next week. He would call her when they landed, a cheerful call, no accusations about taking the phone off the hook, she would wish him well, he would take the whole thing much more lightly from now on.
Kay wondered would Henry seriously take up with someone else as he had threatened. And would she mind very much if he did? She decided she would ring Henry’s secretary and say how sorry she was to miss this evening’s function, she would wish it well and say that, sadly, work had taken precedence. She would ask that Henry not be disturbed but insist that her message of goodwill was passed to those in the right places. This was a professional business-like approach, not a very loving one. But Kay didn’t feel very loving any more.
Then just at the same moment she and Martin left their private thoughts and turned to each other to talk again.
Angie wasn’t mentioned, nor was Henry, but strategy was, and optimism was exchanged.
Kay encouraged Martin to be straight with the groups, to tell them the worst news about funding first and try to work back into a position they felt was marginally more cheerful. Martin advised Kay to let her colleagues in on her hopes for their joint success, let them think they were creating it too. By the time they left the plane they were friends in everything but name. Martin considered asking her name but thought it might sound patronising. Kay wondered about giving him her card but feared she would look like a stereotype female executive.
There was a bank of telephones facing them in Arrivals. They both headed towards them.
Kay paused with her hand on the receiver. In the next box she saw Martin’s fingers, not drumming this time but hesitating. Through the transparent walls they smiled at each other.
He looked less affected she thought, the velvet jacket’s fine really.
She is quite elegant in spite of all that power dressing, he realised.
Neither of them made the phone call.
But it was too soon for any sudden decisions. There was work to be done. If they met each other somewhere again, well and good.
They wished each other luck and got into separate taxis.
As they settled back into their separate seats they each gave their taxi driver the name of the same hotel.
Holiday Weather
ROBERT SAID THAT AFTER DINNER THEY WOULD CURL UP WITH the map of the South of France and plan the journey. Frankie was looking forward to it. This was always a great part of the holiday, when Robert would sit on the sofa with his arm around her, the fire crackling in the grate, glass of wine at hand, and together they would point out magical names to each other. It had been like this last year when his conference had been in Spain and they had hunted for little Spanish idylls for their rambles afterwards. And the year before when it had been in Italy, and their fingers had traced the names by the lakes.
Of course, Frankie knew that the evening would not organise itself, she would have to escape down to the shops at lunchtime to buy something she knew he would like . . . this was getting more difficult since he had begun to worry about his waistline. Gone were the evenings of fillet steak, mushrooms and garlic bread. Perhaps she might get some monkfish, very expensive but it did seem special, and a small selection of vegetables, she could even top and tail them at work, there would be so little time when she got back to her flat. She would have to flash around it tidying of course, getting rid of all the work things that littered the place. Well, Robert hadn’t been round for over a week, so she had been doing her Open University course every evening.
Frankie thought happily about the evening ahead. She would wear her green dress, the one that he had once said had matched her eyes. A long while ago. But of course he still loved her and people didn’t have to go on about eye colouring forever. It would have been unnatural, and possibly a bit repetitive.
The only good thing about working for a man like Dale was that it took up such a small amount of time and so little brain. All that the awful Dale wanted was someone to sit in his front office and look pleasant, ask people to wait a moment while they could thumb through some of the fairly horrible cuttings about Dale’s success in the world of Public Relations, and then ask them to go straight on in. Frankie was far too intelligent for this job, and that knowledge alone gave her great satisfaction. But by being with Dale and his outfit, she had an excuse to see Robert almost every day. And as far as Frankie was concerned she would work on a coal face or as a steeple jack if it meant being close to Robert.
Robert needed excuses to meet Frankie. Robert was married to his boss’ daughter. A marriage of convenience which he entered into at a time before he knew what true love, real love was like.
Robert and his wife had two children who were eight and seven. They were at the age when they could not be upset by things that had nothing to do with them. It wasn’t their fault that Robert had found true love too late. Robert was the rising star in the organisation; he must work harder than ever now that he intended to leave home, and set up two establishments. He must make himself totally indispensable to his boss, his father-in-law, so that there would be no question of letting him go once the divorce was brought up. Frankie didn’t ask when that was going to be but thought that it would be unreasonable to expect it before the children went to boarding school. Three years perhaps? She would wait.
Naturally.
But in the meantime there were wonderful things like the great summer honeymoon. They called it that. Our Italian, Our Spanish, and now Our Riviera honeymoon.
Frankie made her shopping list, and took out the map of France. Whenever Dale passed by she looked as if she was making notes or looking up a reference. Dale would not stop to question her. Frankie looked fine for the job with her long dark curly hair and her bright green eyes. And even more important, she was the friend of Robert, the whiz kid at Bensons. Dale would have employed any kind of person in that front desk if it kept him well in with Bensons. He regarded it as a bonus that Frankie was both bright and beautiful.
The only thing that bored Frankie was that she had to put in the actual hours in her horseshoe-shaped desk. If only she could have slipped away for the afternoon. She could have gone to the hairdresser and even had a manicure as a luxury; her hands would be greatly in view tonight as they traced the route south through the Côte d’Azur down from Cannes past Saint-Raphaël to Saint-Tropez. Or should they go the other way from Cannes over past Antibes, Juan-les-Pins to Nice and Monte Carlo? It was heady stuff even saying the names. Perhaps Frankie would even buy a little guide book at lunchtime so that she would appear knowledgeable tonight.
It was all a rush as she knew it would be. But the dinner had gone well. Robert was relaxed, he had loosened his tie and kicked off his shoes. Frankie had been able to wash her hair, and she had bought green earrings at lunchtime.
‘They’re lovely,’ he said. ‘The colour of your eyes.’
She felt that the fuss and the bustle had all been worthwhile. She even felt glad that she had spent that money on a dishwasher. It had been very extravagant, but Robert adored it. His wife was playing Earth Mother according to his reports, refusing modern gadgets, but for them it was all right, there was the Help and the Au Pair. In Frankie’s flat, however, he loved to see technology. Cuts out all the fuss he had said. They arranged the china and glass and cutlery carefully and listened to it humming away in the kitchen as Frankie got out the map.
‘Darling,’ he said, ‘wrong map I’m afraid.’
‘It says Provence on top but it’s all Cannes and Nice and everywhere dow
n the coast,’ Frankie said surprised. Normally Robert knew where everywhere was, that was why she had studied it so much in advance all afternoon.
‘We’re not going, my love,’ he said.
Her heart lurched with the kind of jump that almost reached her throat. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I, but it’s true. Listen, don’t think I’m pleased. Stop looking at me like that. Hey!’
‘Why can’t I come? We’ve always been able to swing it before. I tell Dale I’m taking my vacation; you tell Mr Benson you need someone from Dale’s to run over the implications of the conference with you. Why can’t I come this time? Why?’ Frankie knew she was sounding like a seven-year-old but her disappointment was so huge she couldn’t hide it. She had bought her clothes, her terribly expensive shoes, the knockout beach gear. The operation was foolproof. Why was he pulling out now? Was it possible that he had found someone new? If he had cheated on his wife once . . . then obviously he could do it again. But don’t go down that road. And don’t cry. Frankie forced her face to stop puckering.
Robert sounded weary and resigned. ‘It’s not you, sweetheart, it’s me. It’s a non-starter.’
‘But you always go to the conference. You are Bensons.’ She was aghast. And yet there was a seed of hope. Suppose he had been discovered, and maybe even demoted. Did that not mean that the day they could be together might be nearer than they had thought?
‘This year, being Bensons means going somewhere else and shoring up someone else’s cock up,’ he said. ‘A whole project is going down the Swanee and apparently I’m the only one who can sweet talk us back to where we were. What a bloody crowd of fools he employs. I’d have got rid of three-quarters of them; I will, I tell you I will one day.’
