“I-is it true, Rich?” he asked.
“No. Well, look, Ed, I was going to tell you. It was just the once. I was hammered drunk and she –”
“Stop!” Ed held up his hand. “Just stop talking!”
Sonya started up again. “Oh, come on, Ed. You can’t pretend to actually be surprised. It’s not like you give a damn. You’re not interested in me, not really. I’ve had an excruciating year and a half listening to you wittering on about the meaning of life and all that other crap that you read. You’re just so bloody boring. Richard, on the other hand – your brother here – he knows exactly what a woman wants.”
She moved towards me again.
“Just face it, Richard – it was always going to happen between you and me.” She looked completely desperate. “It was just a matter of time really.”
Ed slumped back, his face completely drained of colour.
I felt like murdering bloody Sonya.
She latched herself tightly on to me then. “He knows about us now, Richard,” she said, staring wide-eyed up at me. “We can tell Lucy now too – end this stupid engagement charade and be together properly.” She went to try to kiss me.
I pushed her off, but held her at arm’s length. “Let’s get this straight once and for all, you misguided cow. You and I were never meant to be together. Nor will we ever be together again. It was a mistake. A once-off, stupid, drunken mistake. In fact, fucking you was probably the biggest mistake of my life!”
There was a sudden loud smash behind me.
I spun around.
Lucy was standing frozen to the spot a few metres from me, arms outstretched, hands empty. Two broken glasses lay shattered over the marble tiles at her feet; her pale grey dress was splattered with dark wet patches. At her side, her father stood holding a champagne bottle, his mouth wide open.
“Lucy! Mr Mac!” I moved towards them. “It’s not what you think. I can explain.”
I never would have expected what happened next.
Before I could get over to Lucy, my younger, smaller brother pulled me back roughly from behind. Then with ears red and eyes wide and wild, he pinned me by the shoulder, drew back his arm and hit me full force in the face.
Then everything went dark.
Chapter 3
MELANIE
I put the phone down and dropped my head into my hands. I just wanted to cry.
He’d pulled out – the new sponsorship manager I’d been working for months to find had decided to accept the raise and promotion offered by his current employers. Damn it!
I was already in mourning for the slick, successful salesman I’d set my heart on to take over my old role.
I stared at the phone in my office in despair. I couldn’t spend another eight months covering the position on top of my current role – I was up to my eyes as it was. And Marcus was already on the warpath about the new-season programme sales – he was going to freak when he heard about this.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples for a minute – to no effect. The throbbing headache was still there when I opened my eyes again.
Drat, drat, drat! That guy was the only decent stand-out candidate we had. God only knows how we were going to find someone now. Damn these boom times – it never used to be so difficult to find good people.
I’d just reluctantly picked the phone back up to call Marcus to tell him the news when my assistant Grace popped her head around the door.
“Sorry to interrupt, Melanie – just dropping in the camera for those dance shots you wanted to take. The rehearsal starts at three and the company’s manager confirmed they’re happy to be photographed.” She placed the camera on my desk.
I put the receiver back down. “Okay, thanks, Grace.” I took the camera out of its case to look it over.
I knew I probably should really have hired a professional photographer for the job, or at least delegated the photography for the Dance Festival sponsorship proposal to one of my team, but I loved taking photographs and it was so rare for me to be able to find the time to get along to a performance or rehearsal these days that I seized on the opportunity.
“I must get one of these cameras myself someday – they take such great pictures,” I said, turning over the top-of-the-range SLR. “I tell you, Grace – between the proposal we’re putting together and the addition of the few killer dance shots this baby is going to take for me, those potential sponsors will not be able to say no.”
“You said it, boss!” Grace said as she shut the door behind her.
I sighed, then reluctantly put the camera back in its case, picked the phone up and dialled Marcus.
I could have sat there and listened to Prokofiev’s dramatic Romeo and Juliet all day. I got some great shots of the Nua Dance Company’s two lead contemporary-ballet dancers at the beginning of the dress rehearsal, but soon became so engrossed in the elegance of the performance that I forgot about the camera altogether. It was such a relief not to be rushing around, or getting an ear-bashing from Marcus, that I just sat back in my seat in the middle of the empty auditorium and allowed the music and the haunting performance to wash over me. The director and technical crew were busy taking notes, fixing lights and adjusting sound equipment around me, but I barely noticed. I was completely lost in the make-believe world of true love and innocence. The contemporary set and costumes made it seem all the more real and the whole experience was like a luxurious massage for the soul.
In fact, I didn’t remember my mission again until Juliet had taken the poison and Romeo was cradling her desperately in his arms. Real tears streamed down the dancer’s face as the music of the company’s small but excellent orchestra built towards a dramatic climax. I wiped away my own stray tears, then took a couple of beautiful shots of the closing sequence before slipping quietly out of the hall.
As I walked to the office I thought back to when I first joined The Mill five years ago. I went along to as many concerts and shows as I could squeeze into back in those days – and I loved every single one of them. They were such a welcome retreat from my home life at the time.
Ian had always hated the idea of me leaving my marketing-manager job at the insurance firm where we had both worked. He could never understand how I could be happy to take a pay cut to work at an arts centre. When I told him I was applying for the job at The Mill he even threatened to finish with me. I did it anyway and he didn’t follow through on his threat – of course, in time I realised that that may not have been such a good thing. At the time I was happy I’d stuck up for myself though – it was one of the few shows of strength I made against Ian during our three-year relationship – until the end. I should have had the courage to finish with him years earlier, of course – should never have let it go so far.
I sighed, and pushed open the door of my office.
After Ian and I broke up I threw myself into my work, and I attended countless beautiful productions at The Mill. But I didn’t get to steal into as many performances as the pressure in work built up and I had to spend most evenings and weekends studying for the MBA.
Oh well, no time for all that at the moment, I thought. I’m sure things will calm down soon enough.
I sat down at my computer and uploaded the photographs, sorting through them to edit the best for use, eventually finishing off the dance-festival proposal just before seven o’clock. I was just proof-reading it when my office door swung wide open.
Marcus.
What few strands of hair he still possessed were dangling carelessly down from the left side of his head, his glasses perched on top of his now fully exposed bald crown.
I sat bolt upright.
“Melanie, you’re still here. Good.” He let the door slam behind him.
I rummaged around in my in-tray, and pulled out the new sales report. “I know what you’re about to ask, Marcus, and, just to put your mind at ease, sales of the new season have picked up this week. We also have a couple of great promotions about to go live which I think will make qui
te an impact.”
Marcus held up his hand and came right over to my desk to stand over me. “That’s good to hear, Melanie. I was actually quite concerned in that regard. But I’m not here to discuss the sales figures.” He threw a couple of stapled pages on my desk. “I’ve sorted our sponsorship manager problem.” He nodded at the document.
“What? Already? Our preferred candidate only pulled out this morning. How?” I picked up the document – a curriculum vitae.
“No need to look through it,” Marcus said. “I’ve gone over it in detail myself and she’s perfect – exactly what we need. And . . .” his eyes widened as he took a dramatic pause, “she’s Fenella’s niece.”
Oh dear God, no! I thought, in a panic.
Fenella Wright was my other main source of stress at The Mill – she seemed to enjoy making our lives difficult. It was especially irritating because my boss was nauseatingly deferential to his darling chairwoman, and the whole Fenella-Marcus routine was difficult to stomach at the best of times. Fenella had been furious about Richard Blake’s article a few weeks’ earlier. It had laid bare her dramatic rise through the social ranks. Just a few years older than me, before becoming the second wife of the much older, ludicrously wealthy William Wright, Fenella had been a relatively unknown actress. Her career hadn’t exactly been dazzling, and in the early years she’d even appeared in some rather dubious art-house movies. Since her marriage, though, Fenella had finally managed to get the leading-lady roles she so desired: those of glamorous socialite and trophy wife.
Marcus smiled at me – the uncharacteristic good humour was unnerving in so many ways. “Wonderful, isn’t it?” he went on. “I was just speaking with Fenella this afternoon and I mentioned that your candidate had pulled out.”
My candidate? Marcus was on the interview panel too. Why was it always my problem when things went wrong?
“And Fenella once again saved the day by emailing me on her niece’s details,” Marcus was saying. “As luck would have it, young Shirley is ideal, and is free to start straight away. No need to waste any more time on recruiting and interview panels – we’ll bring her in for a few months on trial and, if she works out, offer her the job altogether.”
Oh.
My.
God.
I looked back down, and glanced through the CV which was riddled with spelling mistakes – my pet hate. Normally that alone would be enough for me to file it under ‘B’ for bin, but in the circumstances I read on, picking out the salient details: Shirley Delamere . . . lives Foxrock . . . two years out of college . . . Interior Design Certificate . . . part-time work during college as a model, including appearance on fashion segment of Good Morning, Ireland breakfast show . . . most recent role: four months in an estate agent’s . . .
Prior to that, and I quote: “Carrear brake to travel around the world, and Austrailia.”
Please, please, let this be a joke!
I closed my eyes, praying to see the hidden cameras when I reopened them, but no such luck. I took a deep breath, then looked up at my boss.
“I really don’t think she’s right for the role, Marcus. I mean, I know we’ve been trying to recruit for months now, but we still have a number of other avenues to explore. We haven’t tried to headhunt yet, and there are a number of other recruitment agencies I’d like to contact now. This is a very important position in the team, a pivotal role. I really need someone experienced and talented who can hit the ground running.”
Marcus snatched the CV out of my hands. “What are you talking about? She’s ideal!” He flicked his hand at the page. “Look at this – ‘direction of property sales team, responsible for new housing-estate promotions’.”
More like directing tea-making, and responsible for new biscuit selection.
Marcus went on: “You keep telling me you want someone with direct sales and promotions experience, Melanie! Well,” he waved the CV in my face, “here she is!”
I stood up and took a few steps back from him. “That girl has less than five months’ experience in an estate agent’s office, Marcus – it hardly makes her Saleswoman of the Year. It’s not even an estate agent I’ve ever heard of before, and she wasn’t the one selling – from the looks of things she was a temp who set up a few showings.” I held my hand out for the CV to show him what I meant, but Marcus held onto it and pulled his arm back, that familiar look of steel in his eyes. I put my arm down. “Marcus, this is crazy. We can’t recruit someone just because she’s related to our chairwoman.”
But I’d overestimated my boss’s sense of reason. He just glared through me for a minute before slowly putting his hand through his few long strands of greasy hair and pushing them back over the top of his scalp, patting them down into place behind his right ear. Then he calmly placed the CV back on my desk, and turned for the door.
He stood in the open doorway and, still with his back to me, said, “I told Fenella that we will bring Shirley in on trial for a few months, and that you will train her up to management level. Make it happen, please.” He strode out the door, allowing it to slam shut behind him again.
I flopped back in my seat and picked up the damned CV.
Make it happen . . . make it happen, you say . . . I glared at the door.
All I really felt like doing right then was shoving the wretched CV down his scrawny, nepotistic throat.
I turned back around to my desk. Oh, sod it anyway, I thought. I’d had enough. All I ever got landed with was problems. It was all work, work, work – and I was tired of it. That journalist Richie Blake from last weekend had been right – I needed more fun in my life.
I sat back and smiled as I remembered the roll down the hill with Richie that afternoon. It really was good fun, and I’d surprised myself by quite enjoying the day in the end. Richie’s altercation in the foyer had added an element of drama I hadn’t expected – enough to reassure me that I was doing the right thing keeping my life simple, staying away from guys like that and staying single – for now at least.
But all that aside, the banter and the roll down the hill with Richie was the most fun I’d had in ages. I dreaded to think how long. And I’d missed fun – until the last weekend I hadn’t realised how much.
I threw the CV down on the desk and picked up my phone.
It had been a while, but I knew exactly who to call.
Chapter 4
MELANIE
“Oh my God, that was divine,” said Orla, finishing off her first fruity cocktail of the evening. “Let’s have another.”
I nodded. “Count me in. It is Friday after all.”
I was enjoying the buzz of the busy hotel bar and already feeling re-energised by the good company and tasty cocktails after a stressful week in work. And it was so great to see Orla again. I might have all but retired from the Dublin night-scene, but my old diving buddy was still a regular – Orla always knew exactly where to go, and how to have a good time. I couldn’t think of anyone better to have a fun night out with.
“Niamh is coming too,” said Orla. “She should be here in a minute – I’d better order her one.” She tried to catch the waiter’s attention.
“Oh right. I haven’t seen Niamh in years,” I said, with as much enthusiasm as I could manage.
Niamh Delaney and I used to be in the same tennis club in Greystones in Wicklow where we both grew up. We had a friendly rivalry – kinda. Niamh and I were both pretty good at tennis and always seemed to end up facing off against each other in the various tournaments at the club. I didn’t like losing to anyone really, but I absolutely hated losing to Niamh. She and Orla had been in college together, so Niamh and I usually managed to put our on-court rivalry aside on nights out with Orla – just about.
“Is she still playing tennis?”
“You can ask her yourself,” Orla said, nodding over at the door. “Cooo-eee! Over here!” she shouted to Niamh just as a very cute waiter arrived to take our drink order. Orla turned back to him. “Can you give us a minute, please?”
She flashed him a big smile.
“Sure thing,” he said, giving her a quick wink before going off to collect some glasses from the next table.
Orla had a way with men. I’m not sure if it was her long, wild, curly blonde tresses and voluptuous good looks the men loved, or whether it was the way she so openly flirted with everyone she met. Whatever it was anyway, she always had guys eating out of her hand. In fact, Orla and Niamh were a great double act. Orla would reel the poor unsuspecting men in, and Niamh, a petite brunette, would keep them hanging on her every word.
Niamh sat down and took her coat off. “Melanie McQuaid! You’re still alive! I was beginning to think you’d emigrated. I haven’t seen you down the club in years now.” She laughed. “Not that I’m complaining, of course – I’ve been Club Champion for four years in a row.”
I did my best to stay smiling. I would have loved nothing better than to have made it to Club Champion. I just never quite got there before I quit tennis.
“Good to see you, Niamh,” I said. “Ah sure, I haven’t really had time for tennis for ages now. I bought a new house in town earlier this year, so I don’t get down to Greystones as much any more.”
It wasn’t really the reason I’d given up tennis. I was up and down to Greystones to visit my folks all the time, and I’d been living in an apartment in Dublin for years before I bought the new house. Becoming Club Champion wasn’t part of my five-year plan though, so tennis just had to give.
“So what’s it to be, ladies?” the cute waiter interrupted.
“Well, hello again. My friends and I would like more sex on the beach, please,” Orla said with a wicked grin.
“Right you be, ladies,” he said. “I’ll look after that for you straight away. And what would you like to drink?”
Orla and Niamh shrieked with laughter. The waiter winked at me this time, then started to collect our empty glasses.
Look into the Eye Page 4