Michelle Vernal Box Set

by Michelle Vernal

  Rubbing her towel furiously over her hair to banish any further dance floor flashbacks, she pondered just how she’d come to be in such a state. It had started out innocently enough with a Friday night drinks session in the boardroom to see her pal, Emma, off.

  There had been a good turnout. Mind you, she mused, there wasn’t one red-blooded male at Fitzpatrick & Co., the law firm they both worked at, who would say no thank you to free drinks. Or miss the chance to say cheerio to Emma, for that matter. With her endless tanned legs, a tawny mane of hair, and perfect white-toothed grin, she was the quintessential Aussie babe. Who, after a year and a half of wearing thermals, had had enough of the cold weather and was returning home to work on her tan.

  Rebecca cringed, recalling how she had practiced her sexy Natalie Imbruglia smile on some pleb from the Property Department. That was bad enough but upon taking herself off to the ladies to see why instead of being smitten he had looked disturbed, she had discovered a big chunk of marinated chicken wing stuck between her front teeth. Emma, who thought it was hilarious, hadn’t bothered to tell her.

  “Cow,” she muttered aloud to the empty bathroom.

  It was after her fourth—or was it the fifth?—wine that things got a bit hazy, though. She vaguely recalled linking arms with Emma and their fellow law firm skivvy, Derbhilla. James, the pimply faced summer intern, had invited himself to join in on the night on the town too.

  Stumbling along the banks of the canal in search of another drink, they’d wound up in Maddens. It was the sort of bar you might go to on a first date for a quiet drink. Contemporary with plush leather couches, its dim lights added a moody quality to the soft jazz music filtering out from hidden speakers. However, its understated style had been wasted on the four drunken larrikins huddled at the bar, each holding a tiny glass of some concoction the barman had whipped up for them. Derbhilla had insisted on standing a round of shooters in commiseration of the bombshell Rebecca’s nemesis, Pariah, had dropped earlier in the evening.

  The four of them had raised their glasses and, as a team of synchronised swimmers, knocked them back, gasping in shock at the alcohol burn. They later staggered over to the couches and sank into the soft leather.

  “What’s she got that I haven’t then?” Rebecca had slurred to her comrades.

  James had leered down her top and said that it was pretty obvious while Derbhilla squeezed her arm in consoling assurance. “Ciaran doesn’t fancy her. He told me that she more or less invited herself along when she heard there was a spare room going.”

  “Whatever,” Rebecca had mumbled despondently. She had conjured up the moment Fitzpatrick & Co.’s receptionist had sashayed the length of the boardroom to where she and Ciaran had been in the midst of a deep and meaningful. They had been discussing the pros and, in her case, cons of drinking Guinness. Ciaran, her born and bred Dubliner boss, liked to refer to it as downing the black, and he swore it contained magical healing properties.

  “Hi, Ciaran,” Tania, aka Pariah, had simpered. Rebecca had christened her Pariah due to her unpleasant personality and uncanny resemblance to Mariah Carey. She also possessed the superstar’s purported diva attitude and love affair with skin-tight dresses.

  “Thanks for the invite; I’d love to come.”

  Seeing Rebecca’s quizzical glance up at her boss, she added, “It’s going to be fun, isn’t it? All of us bunking down together.”

  “You’re coming to the races?” The penny dropped. Rebecca couldn’t suppress the note of horror that had crept into her tone. The thought of the Queen of Lycra tagging along on what Ciaran liked to call their team-building trip to the Galway Summer Race Festival was too much. They all knew, though, that this was just his fancy talk for debauched booze fest.

  “Oh yes! I wouldn’t miss it, and I can’t wait for Ladies Day. I’m entering Best Dressed, of course. Were you planning on going in for it as well, Rebecca?” Then, sizing up her competition, she aimed her dart and hit the bullseye. “Personally, I’d have thought the Mad Hatter competition would have been more your style.”

  Rebecca winced; the barb still stung. Sitting there in Maddens an hour later, she could think of at least half a dozen comebacks. Oh, I didn’t know formal wear came in Lycra these days sprang to mind, followed by But how will you possibly get a hat over all that hair? At the time, though, her mind had gone annoyingly blank. Feeling a tickling sensation on her décolletage, she realised it was James. He was in danger of nosediving straight down into the depths of her top if he leered in any farther and she swatted him away like the annoying little fly he was.

  The evening’s events did a bit of a hop, skip, and a jump from there because the next thing she knew, she’d gotten her second wind as the effects of the alcohol kicked in. It was all downhill after that. No longer content with sitting sedately on a couch, she’d bounced around like a cheerleader until the rest of the squad had put on their dancing shoes in readiness for Temple Bar. It was here in some nameless, faceless bar that she’d gone all Saturday Night Fever-ish, but what had happened after that?

  She racked her brain and then wished that she hadn’t because the picture that popped into her head should have come with a warning: “graphic images may disturb some viewers.” If only it were like a tele programme; she’d switch it off or change the channel, but the image before her was firmly planted, and it had taken root.

  There she was illuminated by a flickering neon light down a cobbled alley, the back exit of a bar presumably. The scene she was setting was decidedly seedy, with her shirt hanging forlornly out the back of her skirt, the hemline of which had risen several inches up her thigh. Surely the clothing manufacturers made size twelves smaller every year? It was probably a cost-saving exercise, along with getting everything made in China. While she was on the subject of China, her feet had felt as though they were tightly bound, unused as they were to her strappy Versace heels.

  Oh no; it was all coming back to her now. She’d kicked the bloody things clean off on the dance floor. They were the only pair of designer shoes she’d ever owned, and she’d be gutted if she’d lost them. So what if they’d fallen off the back of a lorry and wound up in the Moore Street Market; they were still Versace, right? As Rebecca drummed up more of last night’s memories, she envisioned the shoes dangling loosely from the fingers of her left hand. Her right arm lay draped over the shoulder of someone she appeared to be snogging the face off. When they came up for air, she emitted a low moan as she saw who she’d been mauling. Nooo!!!

  It couldn’t be! He was just a child, for goodness’ sake. She could be had up for molestation! Jolting back to the present, Rebecca wrenched the shower handle round and nearly stumbled out of the narrow white box in her haste to wrap her robe around her. Leaving a billowing cloud of steam in her wake, she reached her bedroom door in three giant strides and then froze as icy terror raced through her veins.

  She’d been in such a state when she woke up that a sumo wrestler could have taken up residence in her bed and she wouldn’t have noticed. What if he was in there now? What would she do? Go to AA and commit herself to a bloody convent, that’s what! Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to push the door open. The room was in its usual state of disarray with the bonus of a stale, boozy smell. Her bed was pushed up against the far wall and was rumpled. Oh hallelujah! she thought to herself. Thank you, Lord. It was empty! The relief was overwhelming, and she slumped against the doorframe, trying to regulate her breathing.

  “What are you doing?” Melissa’s voice startled her, and she swung around guiltily. “Pooh, it stinks in there.” Rebecca’s flatmate waved a hand in front of her nose, which wrinkled with the self-righteous disgust of someone who had not stopped out half the night.

  Registering Melissa’s matching tracksuit ensemble, Rebecca guessed she was off to the gym. It wasn’t fair; she always managed to look groomed, even when she was going for a work-out. Rebecca, on the other hand, hungover or not, was more a baggy, T-shirt sort of lass. She liked to hi
de in the back of the class. Mind you, the only physical activity she actually did these days was done undercover in her bedroom and no, it wasn’t sex—thank goodness for that! It was the ballet exercises of her youth: pliés, dégagé, tendus, and her old nemesis, the grand battements. How many times had Miss Haines banged her stick and shrieked, “Rebecca, the toes! Point the toes—you are a ballet dancer, not a builder.”

  Ballet was a foreign language to the uninitiated. She’d close her eyes as she raised her arm in a sweeping arc over her head. Her leg would be lifted high and straight, and her toes bent at a cramp-inducing angle as she saw the words in her mind’s eye. The quote emblazoned on a plaque that sat in pride of place on the walls of the studio in which she had spent so many hours practising read:

  To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful. This is power, it is glory on earth and it is yours for the taking.

  Agnes de Mille

  Those words had been inspiring, but there was nothing whatsoever glorious about the Travolta moves she’d pulled last night. Miss Haines would be horrified by them, she thought, shuddering. Sporty Spice (well, with her pretty, delicate dark features, matching tan and sulky expression, she was more Posh than Sporty) inquired, “So what time did you crawl in then?”

  “Late, and I need some painkillers.”

  Sensing there was gossip, Melissa hurried after her into the kitchen like a beagle sniffing blood. “What on earth were you up to last night? Just look at the state of you!” Her top lip curled with distaste.

  Rebecca sighed while her fingers searched inside the cabinet for the paracetamol. She’d been in this position many, many times before. Ever since high school, Melissa’s favourite game had been Truth, Dare, or Promise, and she never gave in until she got the truth. Pouring herself a glass of water, she forced herself to drop the paracetamol back, trying hard not to gag as she swallowed them down.

  At that moment, a muffled ring sounded from somewhere in the apartment. “My mobile!” Rebecca was grateful for the reprieve. “That will be Emma ringing to say goodbye; she’s flying out at lunchtime.” Ringing to rub my nose in it, more likely, she thought while stomping off to source the location of her phone. Emma might have the body of Elle MacPherson, but she had the memory of an elephant, and last night’s debacle was one she wouldn’t be letting her friend forget in a hurry.

  She found her mobile where she’d left it: in her handbag stuffed down the side of her bed.

  Melissa flounced past the door. “Take your call, but you’re not off the hook. I’ll be back.”

  “Right-ho; look forward to it,” Rebecca tossed back sarcastically as the apartment door banged shut. Bloody Melissa had a memory like an elephant too, she grouched, flopping down onto her bed and punching the green button. She sighed. “Hi, Rebecca speaking.”

  “Rebecca?” a voice echoed down the line. “It’s me, Jennifer, your sister.”

  She felt a frisson of annoyance; it wasn’t as if she didn’t keep in touch. Anyone would think she’d been away ten years instead of two the way Jennifer was talking. If anyone were a stranger to picking up the phone, it was her.

  “Rebecca, are you there?”

  There was a definite quiver in her sister’s voice, and Rebecca sat upright, beginning to chew on her thumbnail as she wondered whether this was the phone call everybody dreaded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m here. What is it? What’s happened?”

  She heard her sister take a deep breath—slow and measured—but her voice, when she spoke, was shaking. “Look, I don’t know how to tell you this...”

  “Just tell me!” Rebecca screeched. In her mind’s eye, she was already visualising car pileups and ambulances.

  “I, uh, I hate having to do this over the phone.”

  “What! What, for goodness’ sake?” She felt herself break out in a cold sweat as panic began sweeping through her.

  “It’s Mark. He’s, ah...it’s just that...oh, fuck it, Rebecca! The bastard’s been having an affair.”

  Rebecca’s whole body sagged. No one was hurt—well, not physically at least. She raised her eyes heavenward and mouthed a thank-you before allowing her sister’s words to sink in properly. She was pretty sure she’d just heard Jen, who never swore, use the F word. Come to that, she was also pretty sure she had used the words “affair” and “bastard” in the same sentence, too. She placed the phone down on the bed and rubbed frantically at her ear. A build-up of wax, maybe? Yes, that was it; she must have misheard. After all, the likelihood of her poker-faced brother-in-law having a fling was in the same stratosphere as her sister selling her beloved cooking school to become a lap dancer.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and felt ill as she tried to conjure up an image of Mark in the throes of illicit passion with a floozy. No way! It just didn’t fit the profile of her brother-in-law, the man who had been married to her sister for the last eight years. Picking the phone back up, she asked hesitantly, “Um, Jen, I didn’t quite catch what you said. Could you run it by me again?”

  Her big sister, the one with the perfect life, slowly and unmistakably stated, “Mark has been having an affair.”

  Chapter Two

  JENNIFER’S UNBELIEVABLE revelation sat like Indian take-out in Rebecca’s stomach: heavy and indigestible. Only, an antacid wouldn’t cure this stomach-ache. The sensation built up inside her until, like a belch, her repertoire of colourful phrases erupted. “The fucking wanker!” she shrieked, surprised at how good it felt, and she was only warming up. “I can’t believe he would do that to you! What a total fucking shit for brains! The prick, the wanker—”

  “Stop it, Rebecca! Just stop it!”

  Rebecca nearly dropped the phone as her normally cool and calm sister shouted back at her.

  “Enough already! Don’t you get it? You’re wasting your breath. There’s nothing you can call him that I haven’t called him myself.” Jennifer’s voice dropped a notch as she added, “Please try to remember that he’s still Jack and Hannah’s dad no matter what he’s done to me.”

  Rebecca felt her surging loyalty dissipate; she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Surely her sister wasn’t defending him? This thought quickly became overshadowed by more urgent questions vying for attention, and in one foul breath she exhaled them all: “How long? Who with, for pity’s sake? Is he still seeing her or is it over?”

  When she found out that Mark had been sleeping with his secretary for the last three months, she almost wished she hadn’t asked.

  “I know, I know, it’s the ultimate cliché.” Jennifer’s voice was weary, and Rebecca could visualise her rubbing her temple the way she always did when she got stressed.

  “I mean, she was there, willing and able, whereas I, trying to run the business and looking after Jack and Hannah, wasn’t.”

  Jen was right. Though, even if it was all true, it did sound banal.

  “Mark’s sworn to me that it’s over.”

  Something about the way her sister delivered this last comment irked Rebecca. Where had her super staunch big sister disappeared to? The sister who would let no one walk all over her or for that matter, her little sister. How many times when they were kids had Jen stood up for her in the playground? So why the hell wasn’t she sticking up for herself now? If it were up to her, she would have kicked Mark’s no good ass all the way up to Auckland. She spat, “Well, bully for him, Jennifer. Did you smack his bottom and tell him not to do it again?”

  The static of the international phone connection lingered in the lull between the sisters. Then, using that irritatingly placating tone usually reserved for her children, Jennifer broke the silence. “Please don’t be like that, Rebecca. I don’t expect you to understand, but couldn’t you at least try to see things from my point of view for once? It’s not just about me, or her, or him. There’s Hannah and Jack to consider in all of this as well.” Her voice quavered as she mentioned her children’s names; her sister had no idea what it was like to think about anyone other than herself.


  “So what was her name?” Rebecca refused to soften her stance.

  Jennifer inhaled sharply. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Rebecca squeezed her free hand shut, feeling her nails dig into her palms. “Tell me,” she insisted.

  “Why? What difference does it make?”

  “Because I want to be able to put a name to the harlot’s face, that’s why.”

  Resigning herself to the fact that she wasn’t going to let this one go, Jennifer reluctantly mumbled, “Natalie. Her name’s Natalie Freeman. She began work for Mark at the beginning of the year, and she’s only twenty-nine. Needless to say, she is now seeking other employment, no longer employed by him.” Fumbling over the words, Jennifer continued, ranting. “She’s ten years younger than me. I got traded in for a younger model. Oh, and she’s a blonde too. Is that a big enough joke for you now?” Her voice broke off into sobs.

  Unable to remember the last time she’d heard her big sister cry, Rebecca began backpedalling. “I’m sorry, Jen. I had no right asking.”

  The sniffling didn’t abate, and her pleading intensified. “Please stop, please stop crying. Tell me what I can do to make it better.”

  Jennifer hiccupped and sniffed. “There is something you can do...”

  Stunned by the requests that followed, Rebecca flung the duvet to one side and perched on the edge of her bed, opening and shutting her mouth like a goldfish on speed. Two whole weeks—Jennifer wanted her to come home and look after Jack and Hannah for two whole weeks!

  “B-but why? Where are you going?”

  “Away with Mark, of course,” Jennifer answered matter-of-factly, as though it should have been obvious. “We need some time out. Just the two of us, to see if we can put what he did behind us and move forward.” A heartfelt sigh flittered down the line. “Oh, Becs, we’ve gotten so bogged down with everything else in our lives that we’ve lost sight of ourselves as a couple.” Jennifer’s mental rummaging produced a trump card with a flourish as she shamelessly played it. “Please give us a chance to make our marriage work. If not for me and Mark, do it for Jack and Hannah.”