No, I wasn’t happy.
Nor should the client have been. It didn’t make sense to assign someone with my charge-out rate to such a lowly section, but I shrugged it off. There was another way to deal with this.
We were stationed in the Sunrise Head Office. Previously situated in a jumble of portacabins in Finglas, Sunrise had profited well from the building boom of the Celtic Tiger and now occupied a newly built premises in Parkwest Business Park.
Within two days I knew Oliver was under pressure. That often happens with jobs – you get there thinking it’s all going to be plain sailing and then after a while you get the feeling that the deadline you felt was safely somewhere far on the horizon was starting to creep closer and closer.
So I happily ignored the first strains of pandemonium that were starting to filter over from his side of the bright, airy office.
Fixed Assets it was.
It didn’t take long for my deliberate yet subtle tactics to take effect.
On day four Oliver walked by my desk and something caught his eye.
“Holly!” he barked.
“Mmm?” I didn’t look up from the paper I was immersed in.
“Any chance you’d do some work? We’re kind of under pressure here.”
“I am working.” I still didn’t raise my head.
By now the entire team was watching. Oliver was known for two things: his good looks and his low threshold for adversity.
“Care to explain exactly how reading the Buy and Sell constitutes working?” He pointed to the open free-advertisement paper on my desk, the bright yellow pages of which were clearly visible.
“I’m valuing the Fixed Assets.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Yes, it’s fascinating actually – I didn’t realise that you could pick up a cherrypicker for so little these days.”
“A what?”
“A cherrypicker – oh sorry, I should say a teleporter. Apparently they’re the same thing.”
“Put away that fucking paper!” He was apoplectic by now.
“No.”
“Now!” he roared.
It was time for me to look up.
“I said no. Do you realise that Sunrise have overvalued practically all of their Plant & Machinery by at least 35%, and I haven’t even started on their Fixtures & Fittings or Motor Vehicles yet.” I dipped my head into the paper again. “I did however see an Audi A2 2005 here for 11k – what did you pay for yours again?”
“Right, that’s it!” His face was by now white with rage, and he looked like he would willingly have swatted me over the head with the offending periodical, but even he knew when he had lost. With a look that would have unnerved a lesser mortal, he hissed, “Give that bloody paper to Angela. I’m moving you to Creditors.”
I smiled sweetly at his retreating back and said, “No problem, you’re the boss!”
And he’d stopped, turned slowly and while it was obvious he was trying to give me a warning look, it was even more obvious that he was trying to contain a smile.
Later that evening he’d offered me a lift home. I’d been about to say no, but if it came to a toss-up between a trip on a stinking Dublin bus or a spin in a cool car, I knew where my priorities lay.
As I’d sunk into the leather-upholstered passenger seat, there was no escaping the change in the air. He’d loosened his tie; I’d shaken the knot from my hair. Both of us knowing exactly what we were doing. Neither of us spoke until I saw the Dublin Mountains start to flash past my window. When I turned to question him coyly about his chosen route, he’djust laughed and told me he wouldn’t charge me any extra for the scenery. Immediately I felt those first frissons of excitement raise the hair on my arms. That was Oliver all over, cocky, self-assured cheekiness.
I looked at the phone again. There were more messages too, as well as the calls – six of them, all unread.I couldn’t remember how many there’d been when, at 5a.m., I’d left the window and lain on the bed, wanting him to stop ringing, stop messaging, stop buzzing the door.
I put the phone back on the windowsill and sat back down on the edge of the bed, head in my hands, fighting back the tears.
You stupid girl.
And that was another funny thing. Deep down, I knew that I really should have answered the phone and told him that he was every form of two-timing-bastard-under-the-sun. But I hadn’t. I hadn’t because to speak to him, to answer his call, to read his messages, to let him in the door would have meant taking time out from berating myself.
Time out from the all-consuming self-loathing that was fast reaching dangerous proportions.
From the sinking feeling of déjà vu.
Because I was no stranger to romantic disaster. Oh no, we were practically old friends at this stage. It didn’t matter that what had happened wasn’t my fault. When these thoughts came to visit, all I could focus on was the fact that my life was once again a mess, and who else could possibly be to blame for that?
When it came to love, I ricocheted from one disaster to another.
Why do you fall for such horrible, useless men?
Why did you get involved with anyone at all? After last time . . .
Will you never, ever learn?
It was like a never-ending mantra going around in my head and, short of slapping myself, I couldn’t stop it.
But I thought he loved me.
For a second I let the voice of reason have a say. I hadn’t just thought he loved me. Oliver Conlon had said he loved me. He’d said it, and I’d believed him.
You’d think I’d have learned. After all, it hadn’t been that long since Cain Hobson had uttered those very same words . . .
Chapter 5
The Cain situation had been textbook really. When I moved back to the States at the tender age of nineteen I had two goals: the first was to get away from my parents and Golden-Child siblings and the second was to have a think about my life, maybe write a little, you know, spend a bit of time taking stock . . .
Well, my Auntie Monica had other ideas on how best I could spend my time. A straight-backed, stern woman who worked for the Internal Revenue, she saw no reason why I also couldn’t find myself some gainful employment while all this soul-searching was going on. She promptly got me a job waitressing in a downtown restaurant and didn’t waste too much time worrying if the commute from West 72nd Street was safe for a young Irish girl virtually on her own in a strange city. This kind of freedom was new to me and that first day I’d kind of lingered at the front door waiting to be drenched in Holy Water but it just didn’t happen.
And she was right. I never got mugged or raped or even frowned on and six months working in those sweltering kitchens was enough to make me realise that I’d better finish the taking-stock period, and fast.
I’m not sure who suggested finance first, but I’d say it was Monica who put it in my head then patiently waited for it to be my idea. So, to cut a long story short, I enrolled in grad school, then university, still waiting tables to earn a few dollars, and on graduation got the job at Grantham Sparks.
No one was more stunned than me to discover that accounting, then auditing, was to be my thing. I think that when I discovered I was good at it, there was no further question of where my future lay. After all, there was never a long list of areas in which I might excel.
Armed with my new talent, I became the rising star at Grantham Sparks. I got the best jobs, the best appraisals, the best opportunities and my whole being was charged with new-found confidence. I dyed my auburn hair blonde and jogged my way into an array of beautifully cut power suits. Even the fact that I was a Size 10 at home but a Size 6 in American sizing gave me a thrill. A Size 6, could you imagine? The world was my oyster.
And then, with no trepidation whatsoever I also launched myself onto the New York dating scene. I’d watched the programmes: no self-respecting girl went out with just one guy, so I was damned if I was going to. And, boy, was it fun! I was never, ever going back to Ireland . . .
So when Cain Hobson, a senior manager in the practice, bought me a Gin Martini at a company night out in The Plaza, it really didn’t mean anything to me. When he then went on for ten minutes about how the best Gin Martinis were to be had at Cipriani’s – they even froze the glass – I was only just short of yawning. I found his attempt at educating the new Irish girl clumsy and patronising and I believe I told him as much. So he offered to take me to Cipriani’s there and then and I laughed at him.
I had a date, I told him.
Cancel it, he said, and I walked away.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t good-looking. He was. Tall, athletic, he had a long lean frame. Even his face was lean, his cheekbones angular, and his eyes dark and slightly restless. But the main thing about Cain Hobson was that when he spoke to you he made you feel like you were the only girl in Manhattan.
Which was rich, when it turned out you weren’t even the only girl in his bed.
It took me two weeks to give in. Two weeks of cryptic emails, texts – he even passed me a piece of paper in a meeting which, when opened, turned out to be a torn-off map of Manhattan with Grand Central Station (which I’d since found out housed this famous Martini bar) clearly marked with a date and time.
I’m not sure what made me succumb in the end. I suppose I was dating so many other guys, one more in the pot didn’t seem like too big a deal. I’d meet him, let him buy me one of the goddamn drinks and that would be it.
So in early November we had our first date. And on that date the first thing he told me was that he was married. And I should have been shocked. I should have chucked his frozen glass in his face and got on the next subway out of there but I didn’t. There was something about his dark, brooding eyes and the way he looked so wounded about the situation that made me believe him when he told me it was all but over. But looking back, it wasn’t just a matter of believing him, it was a matter of wanting to believe him. Because despite all my protestations and statements to the contrary, I fell for Cain Hobson that night – hook, line and sinker.
And as for the married thing? I shrugged it off. He had a wife, I had Richard and Juan, and – well, I told myself it didn’t matter.
Of course there’d be nights where he’d cancel at the last minute because one of the kids was sick – oh yes, did I not mention he had kids too? Of course he did – as I said, this whole thing was textbook – but children were so far removed from my daily life that again I’m ashamed to say I didn’t give them much thought either.
Of course the logistics of the relationship weren’t easy. He lived with his family in the Village and I lived on Perry Street on the West Side with Auntie Monica. But she travelled a lot and, well, let’s just say we managed . . . He didn’t talk a lot about home and I didn’t think a lot about his home, so we got along just fine.
And then suddenly I didn’t want to see Richard or Juan or some other random “guy”. I wanted Cain. I wanted him in a way that made my heart leap in my chest at a glimpse of him in a corridor. I wanted him in a way that made me sleep with my phone under my pillow so that when he texted me goodnight I’d know straight away. And slowly, the other guys drifted off the list.
And, anyway, me dating other guys made that muscle in the corner of his jaw twitch, and nothing was worth that. It was bad enough that his wife made him miserable without me starting . . .
Until I didn’t see him for four days solid over Christmas and I got my first taste of the downside of dating a married man. Those four days seemed endless. No clandestine lunches in the Polish Kitchen or clandestine suppers in Little Italy. No meeting at the Boathouse in Central Park on frosty Saturday mornings, strolling up through the Ramble, climbing Belvedere Castle to not notice the views and then ending up for hours in the Conservatory Gardens. No Knicks games in Madison Square Gardens. No phone calls, no texts, no nothing.
Yes, those days at Christmas without him were an eye-opener. It suddenly became painfully obvious that it wasn’t just us.
That it was just me.
I moped around so much that even Monica could see there was something wrong. And on day four I decided that was it. Enough was enough. This sitting-around lark was a mug’s game and I was no mug.
I picked up my cell and sent him a message: Just to let you know the Irish merger is no longer an option due to lack of interest.
Within forty-five seconds he phoned.
“What are you talking about?”
I could almost hear that muscle twitch from where I sat in Monica’s apartment on Perry Street.
“You know what I mean. It’s over. Not happening.”
“Meet me. In thirty minutes.”
“No.”
“I’ve something to tell you. It’s important.”
“No. No, Cain, nothing you have to tell me will make any difference. I’m twenty-eight years of age. I’ve just sat in waiting for you to call for four days. That can’t be the way I live my life.”
“Look, there’s a park at the end of Bleecker – that’s not far from you – I’ll be there in one hour.”
He hung up.
And of course I met him. And there, in that tiny park, he pulled me close to shelter me from the foggy drizzle and told me he was leaving. That his marriage was over. That they’d discussed it over Christmas and it was mutual.
He told me that he’d fallen in love with me, that we would move in together, and that everything was going to be great.
And I believed him.
And so we continued.
And that was where I got cocky. There was a new bounce in my step and I suppose I no longer cared who knew that me and my dishy senior manager had a “thing” going on. I flirted a bit more openly and even hinted that my dating days were over. That I was going steady with a mystery man. The trouble was, I didn’t have many close friends at work and, to be honest, this carry-on didn’t make my female colleagues warm to me any further. But I didn’t care. I had everything I wanted.
Exactly three weeks later Cain Hobson stood me up again. It was no biggie. We were meant to be going an exhibition at the Guggenheim and I waited outside for thirty minutes before huffily deciding to go ahead without him.
I’d read the best way to view the collection was to take the elevator to the top level and work your way slowly down the spiral ramp, so I did this, full certain we’d meet halfway down.
But he never showed.
Furious, I lingered in the Tannhauser room, standing in front of a huge Van Gogh, my mobile phone clutched tightly in my hand. But my phone remained silent and eventually I stomped out to Fifth Avenue and caught a cab.
There was still no word from him by the time I got to work the next morning and, by the time I reached my floor, I could feel my mouth was set in a thin line.
So it took a while to notice that people were looking at me, well, differently. Some were even smirking. I didn’t have time to wonder much about it though as at nine thirty I was called to the office of Mike Preston, my team leader.
Where he asked me nicely to stay away from Cain Hobson as my harassment was damaging his marriage.
At first I laughed. I actually thought it was a joke. But then I noticed that Mike wasn’t laughing with me.
“I’ve been harassing him? Did he say that?”
“Look, Holly . . .” Mike was clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation.
“Did he say that?” I almost screamed.
“He asked that you be taken off his assignments. Are you saying you have no idea why he would say that?”
“I’m not denying we were in a relationship, no. But his marriage is over. He said so.”
“Well, it’s not. This – this whatever it is has obviously caused some difficulties but it’s not over. He’s taking some time off, but . . .” he paused, clearly afraid that what he had to say next would tip me over the edge altogether, “he’d like you off his team before he comes back.”
“But he can’t do that!”
“Holly, please – this doesn�
��t look so good for you right now. Cain is well thought of here – so’s Melissa for that matter – if he wants to try and save his marriage, you should do the decent thing and stop whatever it is you’re doing.”
“What I’m doing? What has he said to you? He asked me out – he – he – it was all him!” I knew I sounded like someone demented now and the look on Mike’s face was starting to switch from discomfort to annoyance.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? This will blow over, teams switch around all the time . . .”
I could do nothing but nod.
But I didn’t go home. I went to my desk alright, got my bag and wound my scarf tightly around my neck before leaving the floor, ignoring the smirks all around me. Then I left our building and started to walk and I didn’t stop. Past City Hall, past the Flat Iron Building and on up Fifth Avenue towards the Park.
And all the time the conversation that had just taken place spun round and round in my head. And with every step I had to fight the urge to dial Cain’s number. It was ironic but my months as a mistress had trained me well.
Then, as I reached the Park, my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number but I knew even before I answered that it was him.
“Holly, I’m sorry.”
“Cain, what the fuck is going on? I’ve just been nearly fired for harassing you!”
“I know, I know. Look, it happened last night. She found out. I had to do something.”
“Why? I thought it was over – you said it was over!”
“Look, Holly, it’s not that simple – there’s the girls –”
“What do you mean the girls – the girls were there all along – what? You’re only remembering them now?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Damn straight I don’t understand – why say anything at work? Why make up that ridiculous story that I’m harassing you?”
“Because she threatened to take the kids to Tampa to her folks. I couldn’t let that happen, Holly – I couldn’t.”
“So why blame me?”
“Do you have any idea how bad this looks for me? I’m not meant to be chasing junior members of staff – and Mel, well, she knows all the wives – I had to try and save face for her somehow. This marriage is all she has – you’re young, gorgeous – you’ll be fine, the world is your –”
Between You and Me Page 4
