Mr Right for the Night

by Marisa Mackle

  MR RIGHT FOR THE NIGHT

  First Kindle Edition

  MARISA MACKLE

  Copyright © Marisa Mackle 2002

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the purchaser.This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other person. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you'd like to share it with. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

  Find out more about Marisa and her other books on www.marisamackle.ie

  CHAPTER ONE

  If you ran after men they ran away.

  They were like dogs, Anna’s granny had once said.

  If you chased a dog he ran off.

  If you stopped he stopped.

  If you turned slowly so did he.

  If you ran away he panicked and ran after you.

  Apparently.

  Anna Allstone had chased her mother’s dog once for five hours up and down Sandymount Strand. People had stared at her like she was some kind of dog thief. He’d glared at her from a safe distance pretending he’d never seen her before in his life. And even when she bought a tin of Chum in the garage across the road and rapped it with her pocket-knife like a madman, he still refused to cooperate. It was only later, when she finally gave up, got into her mother’s car and prepared to drive off, that he ran after her like his life depended on it. If only she’d used the same tactics on Emmet Dirave last week.

  If only she hadn’t called round to his house with a bottle of red wine and the Sunday papers to find an unfamiliar blue Fiat parked in the drive. If only she hadn’t rung the doorbell seven times, eventually shouting desperately through the letter box, ‘I know you’re in there, you prick.’ If only she hadn’t left several life-threatening messages on his answering machine telling him he’d be sorry, that he’d never meet anyone like her ever again. If only she hadn’t changed her tone later on in a tearful ‘call me please and we can talk about this’ message. If only . . .

  Anna dutifully blew out the thirty candles her mother had clumsily stuck on a strawberry flan. She smiled into her dad’s camera. CLICK. There, captured on camera for ever. It would be placed carefully on the sitting-room wall along with all the other twenty-nine.

  ‘Will you have a piece, Anna?’ Her mother slapped a generous slice onto a plate in front of her. With a huge dollop of cream. Anna gave it a disdainful look. There were at least a thousand calories in that.

  ‘Your mam went to an awful lot of trouble so she did,’ Grandad croaked from behind the Irish Times. ‘She’s been baking all afternoon.’

  ‘That was very nice of her,’ Anna tried to look cheerful. She glanced from her overweight mother to her lean father to her live-in grandfather. ‘So any other news?’

  ‘Your brother got promoted,’ her mother said proudly.

  ‘Didn’t he just get promoted recently?’

  ‘Yes, and he just got promoted again,’ her father added, looking like he was about to explode with pride.

  ‘Great, he must be nearly running the bank by now,’ Anna’s voice was dry.

  ‘Have another piece of cake, Anna.’

  ‘No, honestly I’m full and er . . . it’s getting late. I don’t want to be wandering the streets late at night. Dublin’s becoming quite dangerous, you know.’

  ‘I’ll drive you home so.’ Her father stood up wearily and picked his car keys up from the kitchen table.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind, Dad?’ Anna grinned.

  He shook his head. ‘I know you’ve just turned thirty, love, but you haven’t changed a bit. You’d still do anything for a lift. When are you going to get your own car?’

  ‘Soon, Dad, soon,’ Anna promised as she kissed her mother and Grandad goodnight.

  Thank God that was over with, she told herself as her father drove her home to Ranelagh. Next year she’d organize something more exciting. Like a party, say. Not with her family though. No, with young people. Then again thirty wasn’t very young. Not if you wanted to be a ballerina or a model or something. Or a tennis star. But it didn’t matter because she didn’t want to be any of those things anyway. You had to think positive in life. Thirty was very young in some professions. Like thirty would be extremely young for a bishop. Or a chief executive of a major company. Or a famous poet or professor. Or a headmaster or, God forbid, a grandmother! Stop it, she scolded herself. There was no point in going round in circles about this. She could weigh up the pros and cons till the cows came home but nothing could change the fact that she’d hit the big three oh. Period.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Anna,

  It’s hard to believe it’s been twelve years! Are you still as mad as ever? I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about. Well, Vincent and I (we tied the knot in June) are throwing a joint thirtieth bash. Sounds so old, doesn’t it? We’d be absolutely thrilled if you and your partner could come along, Saturday, 8 April, 8.00 p.m.

  Victoria Reddin (ne´e Reilly)

  Anna stared at the note before attacking the second half of her King Size Mars. The pot of pasta had just started to boil but she couldn’t possibly wait another twenty minutes to eat. She read the note again. And again. Then she washed the rest of the Mars down with Diet Coke. The whole thing was bizarre. Damn this silly note. It was mind-boggling. She turned the pasta down to one, half wishing she hadn’t eaten the entire Mars. It would take a good few Mr Motivators to work all that off. She blamed Victoria. It was all her fault. The invitation had completely thrown her. She dialled Claire’s number. Claire was always great in a crisis. Sensible and settled, married to a solid man called Simon who sold shares, Claire would have all the answers.

  ‘Claire, you won’t believe what hap––’

  ‘Oh Anna, can I ring you back, this isn’t a good time.’

  ‘But it’s an emergency.’

  ‘Your house is on fire?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Someone’s dead?’

  ‘No, nothing like that . . .’

  ‘Well then, Anna, it’s not an emergency. I’ll ring you back, bye.’

  Anna sighed, the phone feeling like a dead weight in her right hand. What had happened to good old friendship? Huh! They said a friend in need was a friend indeed. Well, Anna was in need and indeed Claire was not being supportive. But since Claire had got married, the only thing she loved to talk about was other people’s marriages. Recent marriages. Broken marriages (that was a favourite). Annulled marriages (though to be honest you didn’t get too many of them in Ireland). Yet. Gay marriages. Hello! marriages. Second and third marriages . . . It was just oh so dull.

  Anna couldn’t understand it all. She supposed it made Claire feel part of the most dangerous and furiously fast-growing society in Ireland – the ARMPITTS – Annoying Rich Married People In Their Thirties Society. Anna missed the old Claire. The one who got plastered every Saturday, fired every second Monday, stood up every Thursday and dumped every Friday. God, she used to be so much fun! These days Claire was an ARMPITT with an armful of advice for her few remaining single friends. And although she meant well, all the ‘tips’ got to you after a while. The phone rang suddenly. Anna cleared her throat.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered softly in case it was a man.

  ‘Anna, it’s all right it’s me, we can talk now.’

  ‘Oh good. Am I being timed?’

  ‘Wait till you have kids and you’ll know all about
time management.’

  ‘You’ll never guess who got in contact with me.’ Like a crime correspondent Anna spoke in a low throaty voice.

  ‘Victoria Reilly.’

  ‘Oh, how did you know?’ Anna could hardly contain her disappointment.

  ‘She sent me a card as well.’

  ‘Did she?’

  ‘Apparently she sent one to everyone in the class.’

  ‘So it’s like a reunion.’

  ‘Something like that. What else did you want?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘God, Anna, you’re the biggest drama queen,’ Claire laughed.

  ‘She asked in mine if I was still as mad as ever?’

  ‘That’s weird, she must be mixing you up with someone else.’

  ‘I bet she doesn’t even remember me,’ Anna sniffed.

  ‘Well, it’s been twelve years.’

  ‘I don’t care how long it’s been. I haven’t forgotten how she made our lives hell. Don’t you remember the way she called us Little and Large to make the others laugh?’

  ‘Oh kids will be kids.’

  ‘It wasn’t as traumatic for you.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You were Little, I was Large . . .’

  ‘Oh God, Anna, stop being paranoid. Was there anything else?’

  ‘Anything else? I don’t think you quite understand

  what’s going on here.’

  ‘Listen, Anna, it’s really not such a big deal. Now

  I really have to go, I . . .’

  ‘You can’t go.’

  ‘I’ve something in the oven.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  ‘I’ll call round later.’

  ‘Great, I’ll open a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Yes, that should solve all our problems.’ Anna removed all her clothes, including shoes and underwear. She stepped on the weighing scales as slowly as she could and peered at the dial. Oh God, that couldn’t be right. She discarded her earrings and hair clip. It still didn’t make any difference. Sugar. This was bad. She got dressed again and ambled towards the kitchen. She was starving and, besides, a few more bars of chocolate wouldn’t make a difference. She reached for a packet of Maltesers. They were light, weren’t they? Remember the ad with the thin girl rowing the boat?

  She was looking forward to Claire coming over. It was about time Simon babysat for a change. Claire was like a prisoner sometimes. Not that it was such a terrible complaint. Anna frowned. After all being as free as a bird wasn’t all it was cracked up to be either. She uncorked the bottle of red just as the doorbell rang. Great. Perfect timing.

  Claire looked super for a mother, Anna thought. Her long dark wavy hair was shining and her cheeks had a healthy pink glow. Anna let her into the freezing communal hallway.

  ‘Mind the bicycles,’ Anna pointed out. ‘They belong to the lads downstairs.’

  ‘Oh yeah, you said one was cute, didn’t you?’

  ‘One’s cute, one’s not. They’re students.’

  They climbed the stairs and were soon seated in Anna’s minute one-bedroomed flat. It was ensuite in that it had a shower, a toilet with an ice-cold seat that didn’t encourage you to sit for very long, and a ridiculously small basin dribbling cold water. But the rent wasn’t ludicrously expensive and at her age she needed privacy. It was comfy, and she rented it by herself. It was untidy most of the time except for about three evenings a year when she entertained friends and was forced to throw most of her stuff under the bed before the first guest arrived.

  ‘So how’s little Andrew?’ Anna asked politely. Best to get the baby talk out of the way before moving on to more important things.

  ‘Oh, he’s as good as gold. Not like other babies who cry all the time.’

  ‘Good, great.’ Anna poured herself a generous glass of wine and put her feet up. ‘I’ll babysit for you any time.’

  ‘Yes, thanks er . . . that’s very generous of you.’

  Not in a million years would Claire let her best friend look after poor Andrew; God, it didn’t bear thinking about. Andrew would probably be force-fed tins of Chum while bottles of luke-warm milk would have to suffice for Blackie.

  ‘Anyway,’ Anna continued cheerfully, anxious to hurry things along. ‘About that note from Victoria. Isn’t it extraordinary? And I mean it’s a bit ridiculous sending out invitations at this stage. The party isn’t for nearly four months!’

  ‘Oh, I suppose she’s giving people who live abroad the chance to fly over for the reunion. I shouldn’t get too worked up about it,’ Claire said mildly. ‘It was probably meant as a kind enough gesture.’

  ‘Kind, me foot!’ Anna tugged at a long strand of fair hair. ‘That one was never kind. Can’t you see the only reason she’s invited us is to torment us with stories about how well she’s done.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. Well, we’re not going. She can shove her stupid party,’ Anna said firmly.

  ‘It mightn’t be too bad.’

  ‘Too bad? It’ll be terrible. God, Claire, wild horses couldn’t drag me along to something like that. First of all I’m very much partnerless at the moment, and second of all I’m not prepared to go along and sing Happy Birthday to a girl who made my teenage years hell.’

  Anna picked up a box of Pringles and began to munch defiantly. Claire sipped her red wine slowly. Neither girl spoke for a while.

  ‘You know if you don’t go it will be worse,’ Claire said eventually.

  ‘How?’

  ‘She’ll think you haven’t made a success of your life.’

  ‘Don’t care.’

  ‘You don’t want her saying “Poor Anna”, now do you?’

  ‘I never thought about it like that.’

  But it was true. That’s exactly what Victoria Reilly would say. Anna could imagine her standing in the dining room surrounded by antiques and chandeliers, clinking her champagne glass and laughing loudly. Suddenly conversations would hush and Victoria, the beautiful bitchy hostess, would exclaim, ‘I knew someone didn’t show up. Anna Allstone didn’t. Remember that very peculiar girl . . .’ and everybody would remember and shriek with laughter. God, it was a horrible thought.

  Anna drained her glass and promptly refilled it. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘so I’ll go.’

  ‘You might as well.’

  ‘But only under one condition. I must, absolutely must, find myself the perfect partner for the night.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Claire raised her glass for Anna to refill.

  Anna frowned. ‘Do you think it would be difficult meeting the perfect partner in Dublin?’

  ‘Have you ever tried looking for a needle in a haystack?’ Claire asked unhelpfully.

  ‘Mmmm, you could have a point. I mean he’d have to be decent though. I’m not dragging some small balding dingbat salesman along to meet the victorious Victoria and Vince.’

  Claire laughed. Anna could really get herself worked up over the most insignificant things. People changed as they grew older. True, Victoria and her gang had been particularly nasty at school but that was years ago. It was time to let bygones be bygones.

  ‘He’ll have to be the right mix, of course,’ Anna continued. ‘No NYCDs.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Not in your class dears.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He’ll have to be good looking, of course . . . in a classy way . . . without sideburns, cheap leather jackets, rings on thumbs, et cetera.’

  ‘Why don’t you make a list?’ Claire hooted with laughter. This was great fun.

  ‘Good idea.’ Anna didn’t laugh. This was serious business. Her reputation was at stake here. ‘Give me a pen.’

  Claire took another sip of her wine. She was really beginning to enjoy herself. It was great getting away from Simon and Andrew for the night. Mind you, when she got back home and saw the pair of them fast asleep, she’d be cooing in her drunken state and thinking she was the luckiest woman in the world
. She always did that.

  ‘Right,’ said Anna after a while, ‘I’ve made one. It’s quite short though.’

  ‘Show us.’

  Anna reluctantly handed over the list. Claire read aloud.

  1. No moustaches.

  2. No shirts with horses on them.

  3. No stunning exes.

  4. No overdrawn credit cards.

  5. No clingy loser friends.

  6. No female friends who are like a

  sister to them.

  7. No hairy backs.

  8. No problem spending money.

  9. No control over the relationship.

  10. No daft ideas about settling down.

  ‘There’s a lot of noes here,’ Claire said.

  ‘Well, the yeses are obvious. Yes, he has to have a high-powered job. Yes, he has to be tall, dark and handsome or tall, blond and handsome. Yes, he has to have a decent car. Yes, he has to be hysterically funny without being crude. Yes, he has to respect his mother and sisters (without quoting them the whole time) and yes, he has to think Cindy Crawford’s looks are only average compared to mine.’

  ‘And seriously, what do you suppose your chances are of finding this . . . wonderful specimen?’

  ‘Nil and none,’ Anna answered matter-of-factly. ‘But hey, there’s no harm in aiming high.’

  ‘You should have no problem meeting someone,’ Claire said kindly. ‘Everyone I know thinks you’re very attractive . . . not to mention extremely funny.’

  ‘Well, don’t mention it please. My mother always told me that funny women invariably end up being funny all by themselves. Or end up telling jokes to the cat who won’t laugh unless he knows he’s being fed soon. Men hate funny women.’

  ‘Do you reckon?’

  ‘Of course. Victoria didn’t have a funny bone in her body and all the guys loved her ’cos she was blonde with big boobs.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right. Look at the girls in Friends. They’re funny and they’re always having men trouble.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Anna stood up and opened a second bottle of red. She was beginning to perk up. The list had given her some perspective on life. It was important to focus on what you wanted. You had to see the dim light at the end of the tunnel. But there was only one problem. Where in the world was she going to meet this man?