Ideal Girl
By Jenny O’Brien
Copyright © 2015 by Jenny O’Brien
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof
may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever
without the express written permission of the publisher
except for the use of brief quotations in a book review
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead is entirely co-incidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All Rights reserved
Perry Nighy Publishing
Also by Jenny O’Brien
Girl Descending
Unhappy Ever After Girl
Boy Brainy
In memory of my father, Reggie
Not a doctor, not even a brain surgeon – much more important – A gentleman
A huge thank you to the following writers for their continued support:
Susan Godenzi - Dead Guilty
Valerie Keogh - Deadly Sleep
Thank you Sue Daws for your very relevant comments, I have taken heed!
Thank you TUJD from all over the world for your friendship.
Thanks to Barbara Bos and all at her writers group - Women Writers, Women's Books for all the advice and friendships.
Thanks to Michael O’Neill and Johnny Connaughton from O’Neills, probably the best pub in Dublin. One of these days I’ll pop in for a glass of red for old times’ sake.
Thanks to Sinead and Stephen Heffernan from Thunders Bakery for allowing me to use their name – Cake is always good, especially at Thunders!
Thanks Martha Cliff of the Daily Mail for your article about Lovoo and The Ideal Girlfriend that I read in February 2014 - from little seeds....
Finally the biggest thank you to Benjamin Bak, Sarah Dewe-Mathews and all the staff involved in their survey at Lovoo - Without your survey - no book.
‘The only journey is the one within.’
Rainer Maria Rilke
Prologue
What would you do if you knew that your life was going to change irretrievably today of all days?
Today, not a different kind of day, not any special kind of day - A day that begins just like any other for our heroine; a heroine that has no warning of what’s about to happen. She has no idea that the pattern of her life is about to change; indeed that she is about to change forever by the hand of fate that lies silently in wait. If she had any inkling would she do anything differently do you think?
If it was you would you continue on your journey or would you throw a sickie? Would you continue peddling through the drizzle filled streets, torrential rain beating its tattoo across your back or would you run for cover from the man that you’ve never met, from the man that will change your life forever, from the man that will etch invisible scars across your soul?
And yet the man that lies in wait, only hidden by the seconds of time that cloud our vision is also a victim, for it’s not just Liddy’s life that will be damaged by the journey fate has decreed.
Fate is such an overrated concept: Who’s to know without the benefit of hindsight whether the lot that is foisted upon us improves things or not. Where would Prince William be if he’d gone to study at Cambridge instead of St Andrew’s? Would he still have met his Princess? Would he still be tracing the same footprints in the sand, or would he now be chasing twice married Tracy from Luton?
And Liddy - who would Liddy be if she turned her back on her destiny; happier, or just different?
Our heroine isn’t anyone special, she’s certainly no princess. She’s a bit like the rest of us – an average person, nothing to tweet about, and someone you wouldn’t even throw a second glance at as she cycles past. She’s not particularly pretty. She’s certainly not tall and, if truth be told she’s a tad too plump for any conventional heroine if you know what I mean. But even so you might feel a sliver of sympathy when you realise she’s got a raging sore throat but a job that frowns at sickness, genuine or otherwise. Ironic isn’t it that nursing is that one profession where throwing a sickie isn’t an option - unless that is you’ve a sick note signed in triplicate with something nasty like acute viral nasopharyngitis underscored in red (the common cold to you and me).
Of course at the moment Liddy’s cursing the fact she ever decided to go into nursing instead of some sensible nine to five job like banking. She’s cursing she can only afford the clapped out bicycle she’s peddling as fast as its rusty frame will allow just as she’s cursing she can only afford a shoddy flat three miles outside town.
But Liddy, like most heroines is stoic, very easy to be when she doesn’t know what lies waiting for her at journey’s end. She knows she’s going to be late again, just as she knows the ward sister will be lying in wait to catch her. Sister Slater, just like a couple of other middle aged spinsters that come to mind doesn’t need any second class excuses to be a first class bitch.
There’s really little point in Liddy trying to explain that someone let down her tyres for the second time that week. She’s as sure as she can be without CCTV footage it was the brats from down the road just as she knows last week they used her dustbin as a football; a dustbin that now has a passing resemblance to a satellite dish!
But it’s Liddy’s turn now to take this story forward; she doesn’t need me to guide her. Hurry up or you’ll miss the start – she’s just turned into Westmoreland Street where her future awaits. But I feel I must warn you before you continue on Liddy’s journey. Liddy feels awful, she looks awful and she’s in a bloody awful mood – Good luck…
Chapter One
Waiting for the lights to change she found herself staring into the face of a fellow cyclist: no, not fellow cyclist she corrected, taking in the yellow Lycra jersey, coordinating trainers and helmet before turning away with a smirk. Be Jaysus - here was the Tour de France alive and well, cycling around Dublin’s metropolis and by the looks of him with a set of dry smooth lips to match. Not to mention a lovely firm butt, as she watched entranced at the way he raced away from her in top gear.
Now why couldn’t a fine upstanding gentleman like him be interested in her? There was nothing wrong with her. Okay, so she was a bit too short and a bit too fat, but nobody was perfect and men preferred something they could grab onto, or so she’d been told. She could almost imagine the feel of his nicely rounded biceps wrapped around her; just as she could imagine the pressure of those smooth lips trailing across her skin. Not that she’d had that much experience of men’s mouths, or indeed their biceps come to think of it. Perhaps kissing was meant to be all soggy and squishy and if that was the case she’d take the spinsterhood pledge there and then.
Jerking her front wheel away from the gutter she was reminded of her hopes. She’d always hoped to meet the man of her dreams, someone like those knights of old - minus the horse of course! Instead, up until now all she’d met were immature med students and Drippy Donal. She’d always hoped for the rose covered cottage stuffed full of the sound of children’s’ laughter, but the reality was a damp flat surrounded by even damper men!
However men were the least of her problems, she reminded herself correcting her seating and peddling furiously towards the large wrought iron gates of the hospital. Here she was wet down to her underwear, feeling like crap and heading to spend the day working for the worst ward sister in the building.
Cycling past the last couple of shops she couldn’t help but catch her image clearly reflected in the shiny plate glass windows. She’d forgotten, until that moment that she didn’t just feel like crap. Her hair, normally the bit she was most proud of, fell a
bout her like tangled seaweed - whilst her skin was as lacklustre as a bowl of congealed rice pudding, and that before she’d even started on her nose. It wasn’t that she looked like Rudolph exactly. How many reindeers’ were there anyway with zits larger than Mount Vesuvius traversing their cute little furry heads? Not that she was usually prone to spots, but for some reason known only to itself the spot of all spottiness had chosen today of all days to worship her face. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she’d been prepared, but she hadn’t had a spot in years. Yes; something to boast about, nevertheless a bit of a problem when the only concealer she had in the flat was a bottle of Tippex!
Taking the next right into hospital grounds she reminded herself that she could have taken the easy option and just squeezed the bugger out, but by the time she’d managed to crawl out of bed to make a life-saving cuppa she hadn’t the time, or indeed the inclination to do more than peer at the mirror in shock. The eruption of Vesuvius would have to wait until after her nine hour shift and with any luck it would have disappeared by then into the same place the Easter Bunny did at the end of Spring - back down the hole whence it came.
She arrived at the bicycle park with five minutes to spare. Not long, but long enough if she put a spurt of speed on. Jumping off, she still took a couple of minutes to padlock her wheels to the rack. She was happy to take shortcuts, but if she didn’t secure her bike properly the little blighters would steal her tires. Slinging her rucksack hurriedly across her shoulders she narrowly avoided stabbing herself with the knitting needle poking determinedly out the side.
The icing on the bloody cake! What normal person in the Twenty First Century went around with their knitting? Then again what twenty two year old was expecting a new brother or sister, albeit of the step variety?
However ‘needle stick injuries’ were the least of her worries; she remembered. She only had five minutes left to get on duty or there’d be hell to pay.
Racing up the main hospital steps all of her attention focused on getting on duty as quickly as possible - with a bit more speed she wouldn’t be late after all. Just a quick rub down with the towel she kept in her locker and she would be ready to slip into her scrubs. Her hair always took longer but considering that it was currently hanging down her back in rats’ tails shoving it in a knot on the top of her head would only take seconds.
Concentrating as she was on unearthing her hair bobble from her wrist she failed to realise what was happening over her shoulder; that is until a loud crash assailed her ears. A loud crash quickly followed by something extremely solid toppling her to the ground. Looking back she couldn’t recall exactly what had happened. One minute she was running across reception, and the next it felt as if she’d been rugby tackled to the ground by someone the size of a mountain.
Just great, that’s all I need she thought, struggling to shift the foreign elbow pressing her into the floor and making breathing impossible. But not only that - the force of the blow had slammed her hip against the rock hard marble, causing a wave of pain to encase her within its grip. She stopped struggling, she stopped trying to breathe, she stopped full stop as the pain enveloped her and choked every thought. She didn’t care that she was lying across the entrance. She didn’t care that someone was squashing her flat. She didn’t care about the spot and she certainly didn’t care that now she really would be late; all she cared about was trying not to be sick as a wave of nausea threatened to engulf her.
She suddenly felt an abrupt shift in her universe, as the mountain moved off her. All she wanted to do was to rest her head on the cool marble and catch up with her breathing. But before she could even draw breath a pair of strong tanned arms reached down and firmly eased her back onto her feet.
Still unsteady, she started to thank her rescuer. ‘I’m so sor…..’
‘What on earth were you thinking, tripping me up like that, you silly woman?’ He interrupted. ‘This is a hospital - not some craft factory. You could have knocked into a patient and really done some damage.’
Liddy, still struggling with what had just happened, looked down blankly only to encounter a pair of long suited legs encased in wool; knitting wool just like…..
She gulped, before lifting her eyes to look at the extremely tall, extremely angry man towering above her. She watched, transfixed as he unwound himself and then handed her a half knitted white sleeve and a pile of now grubby grey tinged yarn.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ She repeated, looking up even further to encounter a pair of stormy blue eyes. She paused at the anger focused in her direction, making her already unsteady legs start to wobble afresh. In fact if he hadn’t still been holding onto her she felt she would have toppled back down onto the floor.
What has he got to be so annoyed about anyway? She thought with a sudden flair of temper. Here she was, sprawled all over the entrance with the largest spot in living memory, in addition to probably the sorest bottom this side of The Liffey, whilst the man ahead looked as if he’d just jumped down from the catwalk. He’d a grand day ahead of him whilst she…. She stalled to glance at the clock above the entrance - whilst she really was going to be late.
Throwing one last questioning look she grabbed her rucksack and mumbled another hoarse ‘Sorry’ as she stuffed her ruined knitting back into the front pocket. Hurrying away she still didn’t know how she’d managed to make such a mess of things. She’d embarrassed herself (and in public too), not to mention wasted hours of effort on knitting something that was now only fit for the bin and all for what? She was later now than she’d ever been!
Chapter Two
‘Er are you alright there Mitch – I thought you preferred tapestry?’
‘Ha ha – very funny.’ He replied, still thinking about hair that smelt of lemons wrapped around the most amazing eyes he’d ever come across. ’Someone was in a bit of a hurry.’
‘Interested are you? That’s one of the year three student nurses, Lydia something or other.’
‘Since when do you know student nurses’ names? I thought you were a happily married man.’
‘I am, I am, as you well know having been my best man Mitch! But my registrar has been chasing her for ages, with no luck whatsoever. I’ve had to pick him up on several occasions to keep his eyes and his hands to himself when she’s around. She won’t even go on a date with him. Actually I feel a bit sorry for him, even though he is an arrogant know it all. She’s the archetypical ice maiden.’ He paused. ‘In fact, come to think of it she’d be ideal for you being as she’s also the archetypical “Ideal Girlfriend.” Yeah, why don’t you have a crack at her? You couldn’t do worse than Donal and she’d probably be a lot kinder than the posh totty that you’ve been dating recently.’
‘So what’s so perfect about her then?’ He asked, remembering the less than perfect red nose shining like a belisha beacon, surrounded by the less than perfect hair.
‘Oh didn’t you read it in the papers last week?’
‘I was away, remember?’
‘Oh yeah - sure. So how was your week in Mauritius with the delectable Helena then? Bet you didn’t spend much of your time sightseeing with that yardage of leg tying you to the bedpost!’ He said with a smirk.
‘Oh, so so. I suppose I’d better tell you before you hear it on the grapevine – she’s dumped me.’
‘What! Never!’
‘Yep, apparently I spend too much time at work and not enough at her beck and call. She met an old boyfriend on the second day and spent the remainder of the week jumping off his wardrobe and not mine.’ He threw a wry smile across at his friend. ‘They had the bedroom over mine – it was quite disturbing, especially as he sounded a whole lot fitter.’ He patted his washboard stomach. ’She’s right you know. I do work too hard, but you know what it’s like. There’s work that just has to be done: it’s not as if you can put an RTA off until after you’ve finished your steak now is it? How does Petra cope?’
‘That’s why doctors are best with nurses! There are plenty of girls worki
ng here, nice girls like Liddy who’d would love to get their hands on your stethoscope while you fiddle around with their sphygmomanometer – the added advantage being they all understand the late hours and broken nights.’
‘Okay, okay, I know when I’m beaten.’ He raised his hands in mock defeat. ’Go on then - tell me why this nurse of yours would be perfect then?’
‘Well, as I was saying before you interrupted me - Petra’s been going on and on about how the perfect girlfriend is a dark haired Irish nurse.’
‘Surely not!’
‘Surely yes,’ John started to tick off an imaginary list on to his fingers. ‘Along with the Irish nurse bit she has to be a five foot five inches carnivorous, wine drinking, football loving owner of a Mini with size 34 C tits.’
Mitch watched him root around in his inside pocket. ‘Here, Petra cut this out of the Daily Mail last week.’
‘What, nothing else?’ Mitch smoothed out the article before quickly scrolling down the list, even as he thought of all the nurses he wouldn’t go near with a barge pole; Irish or otherwise. A party animal that could stay up all night drinking beer after a day in the trenches was the very last thing he wanted from a girl. His women were sweet long legged darlings who knew how to make a man feel needed, not some independent career type with an attitude large enough to rival their spots!
‘Anyway it doesn’t mention the most important item now does it? He said, turning the page over to see if anything was written on the back. ‘Nationality isn’t important as long as they’ve lost their voice and turned into a beef sandwich and a six pack by midnight!’
Ideal Girl (Irish Girl, Hospital Romance 1) Page 1
