by Cathy Kelly
‘I never thought it would look so nice, and that’s a flaw in the paper itself, I think,’ she began, trying to placate.
‘I’m not paying!’ bellowed Howard.
‘Fine. I’ll take you to court,’ roared the decorator.
The very thought made her feel weak. There were already men in the garden – Howard had overridden Birdie’s gardening expertise and hired a designer to come in and jazz the place up specially for the wedding – and a team of contract cleaners were arriving in a week to do a proper clean, since the combined efforts of Birdie and Morag, who came in twice a week, were obviously not up to the task.
Somehow, and Birdie had no idea how, Howard had found a woman who made houses look more beautiful ‘with flowers and subtle work’, and she was due to make her first visit the day after the cleaners.
‘She’s reputed to be the best,’ Howard said, almost preening. ‘She’s from Dublin, I got her name from a friend. Now, Mother’s bedroom. Yellow is her favourite colour; let’s go for that.’
And then he was off to the office, leaving Birdie with Thumper, the robin long gone, and a sinking feeling in her heart. Weddings were supposed to be lovely, happy experiences, but apart from her joy over the marriage itself, and darling Katy’s pregnancy, everything else was riddled with stress.
Doris was a dreadful rip who put the fear of God into all who came across her. Argumentative and with a mouth set permanently like a steel trap, at the age of eighty-nine she approved of almost nothing – except her beloved Howard, out of whom she thought the sun shone.
Birdie lived in fear of her visits because Doris, though allegedly fragile and required to use a walking aid, could nevertheless belt around the place finding cobwebs in distant corners, out-of-date packets of flour in the kitchen and trails of dust on furniture Birdie was sure she’d dusted the day before.
‘Look at the state of this,’ was her rallying cry, and Birdie would leap up from whatever she was doing and follow the howl of outrage to locate Doris at the scene of her latest crime.
‘You could kill Howard if you gave him this, you know that, don’t you?’ had been her most recent hobby horse when she’d gone through the cupboards like a malevolent Miss Marple searching out evil.
The healthy nuts and dried fruit Birdie kept for Howard’s morning porridge – part of a recent health kick to slim down his belly – had been declared positively lethal because Birdie wasn’t rotating things in the cupboards properly.
‘In my day, we put new things at the back and the old ones at the front so you weren’t in danger of eating out-of-date foods. You have no system, Birdie. No system at all. No wonder poor Howard is wasting away. He’ll be skin and bone by the time you finish with him.’
There was no point in Birdie protesting that Howard’s new diet was his own invention and that he’d been pushing away her cheesy potatoes and fish pies lately and demanding salads, polyunsaturated spreads and grilled chicken cooked without oil.
The dog was another cause for concern. Doris had no time for animals in the house.
‘That animal should be outside!’ she’d shriek every time she spotted Thumper’s solid golden body. Thumper was not, Birdie thought, a clever dog, but he had plenty of sense when it came to Doris, and he hid under the kitchen table, out of reach of her walking aid, whenever she marched in. His other hiding spot was in Birdie and Howard’s room, where he lay on the bed, sad face on his paws.
Woe betide them all if Doris ever spotted this, Birdie knew.
Thumper was her darling companion and she adored him. She’d always had a dog, going back to the days when she was a child and the only peace she’d known was when she was in Miss Cottontail’s basket in the kitchen, letting the fighting flow over her as she buried her face in the little white terrier’s soft coat. Fifty years had passed and not much had changed, she decided miserably.
When Howard had gone, Birdie decided she’d phone Katy. It was early enough and she knew Katy wouldn’t have left for work yet. It was only Howard’s mania for being first to arrive everywhere that made him get to the office at the crack of dawn.
‘Hi, Mum,’ her daughter answered cheerfully.
‘You sound good, darling,’ said Birdie. ‘The morning sickness getting better?’ she asked hopefully.
‘I feel really good,’ Katy said. ‘Incredible actually. Michael keeps saying it’s some kind of miracle because up until now I’ve been sick as a pig every day, but this morning I feel quite normal.’
‘That’s good, darling,’ her mother said. ‘I do worry about you.’
‘Mum, I’m absolutely fine,’ Katy said firmly. ‘I’m pregnant, not sick. OK, morning sickness isn’t much fun, but if that’s over – and I’m crossing my fingers here – things will be wonderful. Anyway, how are you, Mum?’
‘Oh, fine, fine,’ her mother said, entirely untruthfully.
‘What’s wrong?’ asked Katy.
‘It’s your father,’ said Birdie, caving in. ‘He was talking about your granny coming to stay and how we needed to decorate her room and paint it yellow, and I just got into a bit of a tizzy. You know what he’s like when we have decorators in, and he’s already obsessed with having some sort of house styling expert come to redo the place. Actually, she’s not going to redecorate so much as reorganise: move things around and put big plant pots and gorgeous antiques in places where we never had them before.’
‘He’s just trying to make it look nice,’ Katy said, pleased at the thought.
‘I know, I know,’ said Birdie, ‘but we don’t need to do any of that. The house is nice enough as it is. It makes me feel as if I haven’t done anything right, ever. Besides, the marquee is the important thing.’
‘Tell him that,’ said Katy. ‘Honestly, Mum, I don’t know why you don’t say these things to Dad.’
It all seemed perfectly simple to Katy: if you had something to say, you said it. That was the way she handled her father, and he respected her for it.
On the other end of the phone, Birdie felt the rebuke.
‘Of course,’ she said, forcing a cheerful note into her voice. ‘You’re absolutely right. I should say those sorts of things. I should say, “Howard, the spare bedroom is perfect for your mother, and really, what would we need to do with it, it’s completely lovely.” ’
‘Granny will be fine. I know she can be a bit of an old grumpy boots,’ said Katy, ‘probably because she thinks Dad is the most perfect human being on the planet and the rest of us are just hanging on to his coat-tails, but you need to stand up to her too.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Birdie. She could tell her daughter was eager to end the call and head off to work. ‘I will. Anyway, have a lovely day, darling. I’ll talk to you this evening or tomorrow about the date for the bridesmaid shopping. I know you said Leila was busy at the moment.’
‘She’s off on another business trip this weekend,’ said Katy. ‘I know it’s work, but still. Rome sounds more glamorous than Bridgeport. I’ll talk to her about finalising a date for the bridesmaids’ dresses. Talk later, bye.’
Birdie was left holding the phone. Her daughter was right: she should stand up to Howard more. Tell him she didn’t really want a complete stranger rearranging her furniture, which implied it was all in the wrong place and that she was hopeless at organising things. Somehow when Katy said it, it all sounded perfectly reasonable, but Birdie knew that if she tried to use those same words to Howard’s stern face, she’d falter and stammer until it came out sounding like complete gibberish. She just didn’t have the strength to oppose him.
Howard liked things his own way and it was easier to let him have free rein.
‘Here are your e-tickets to Rome. I’ve printed two itineraries and put the phone number of the person organising it all on top of both of them.’
Ilona handed Leila a small folder.
‘I asked about dress codes because of the big dinner …’ For the first time, Ilona looked anxious, the ultra-organised assistant demeanour slipping. �
��Was that the right thing to do? I wouldn’t have known what to wear, so I just emailed to ask and then I thought you’d probably know and I’d made you look stupid …’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Leila said. ‘It’s handy having a dress code. Some people don’t change after the day’s meetings and turn up in their suits; others roll up at dinner trying to live up to the glamorous image of the industry. What did they say?’
‘Smart dress,’ said Ilona, relieved. Leila was such a decent boss; she knew she was lucky to have her.
‘Which means they want us to change out of our suits. Oh well,’ Leila said, ‘I’d better bring a bigger suitcase. It’s so easy for the men. They can just change their shirts and abandon the ties and they’re good to go. I bet you a tenner that Devlin will only have carry-on baggage. Plus he’ll glare at me if we have to wait ages at the carousel. Tough bananas,’ she added with a smile. ‘Italian women are so glamorous – I’m going to bring half my wardrobe.’
In the mad whirl of organisation and packing, it wasn’t until she reached the airport lounge that she had a free moment to phone her mother.
‘Can’t stop, Leila,’ said Dolores, with an energy in her voice that made Leila smile. ‘I’ve got to get to physiotherapy. Ger says I’m doing really well – though I must admit, I find stairs tricky. It’s hilarious how they help you remember which leg to use to go up and down. Up to heaven and down to hell, Ger says, which means you use your bad leg and hip first on the way down – hell; and the good leg and hip first on the way up – heaven! You can’t help remembering that!’
‘I’m sorry I won’t be there this weekend,’ Leila began.
‘Don’t worry,’ Dolores said. ‘I’m fine, honestly. I’m on the road to recovery. Do you think Pixie will be OK, though?’
It turned out that the lady who ran the doggy daycare boarded small dogs in her home. She only ever took a few at a time and they slept in her kitchen.
‘Pixie loves AnnaLouise,’ said Leila. ‘Adores her. When I dropped her off this morning, she barely bothered to say goodbye to me – just pushed off snuffling round the kitchen, saying hello to AnnaLouise’s dog Rufus and checking out the toys. She’ll have a ball.’
‘Thank you,’ Dolores said. ‘You are so good to me and Pixie, Leila. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.’
‘Oh stop, Mum,’ said Leila. ‘What else would I do? Talk later, love you, bye.’
Never joke about luggage carousels, Leila thought grimly as she stood in a sea of people at carousel four in Rome’s da Vinci airport and watched a lone plastic-wrapped suitcase travel round and round. At first she’d thought nothing was amiss when there was no sign of her black case, because forty minutes after landing there were still so many people clustering round looking for their bags.
Then Devlin, who’d been on his phone, strolled up and pointed out that the jostling crowd was from another flight.
‘The luggage from ours is long gone. Nobody here’ – he gestured around – ‘was on our flight. They’ve all gone. This lot are from a more recent flight.’
‘My bag’s lost,’ Leila realised with dismay.
‘You’ll get it back. Eventually,’ said Devlin, holding on to her elbow and leading her in the direction of the lost luggage department. ‘That’s why I only bring cabin baggage.’
Enraged, Leila searched his face for a sign of smugness. He might be her boss, but if he so much as hinted that this was her fault, she would clobber him with her handbag – and since it contained her iPad, make-up, phone and purse, and a fat notebook, it would deliver a satisfying wallop. She could just imagine it …
‘I’m sorry,’ he said in a different tone. ‘I’ve had my suitcase vanish plenty of times on long haul, but it’s easier for guys – we just buy a shaving kit, a shirt and a few other essentials and we’re good to go until we get it back.’
They were at the lost luggage now, at the end of a queue. Devlin put a strong arm around her and squeezed sympathetically.
Leila blinked in shock at the gesture. Devlin comforting her?
‘It’ll be fine, Leila. We’re insured against this sort of thing – let’s sort out your suitcase, hit the hotel and you can go shopping. I can’t have my right-hand woman with nothing to wear.’
It was the way he said it: as though she mattered to him, as though he cared. And the way he was holding on to her – Leila felt tears spring to her eyes.
She couldn’t let him see. What sort of person would he think she was if losing her darn bags had her bursting into tears? Leila Martin was supposed to be unflappable, a superwoman who sorted out every crisis a publicity manager could be confronted with, from a famous elderly movie star being too tanked out on green-room wine to appear on a TV chat show, to that time an actress’s heavily pregnant sister had her waters break in the limo on the way to a charity premiere. A woman who could handle such things with aplomb did not sob.
She broke free and, without looking at Devlin, summoned up all her acting skills to call cheerily: ‘I’m just running to the loo. Will you wait in the queue for me?’
By the time she got back, they were next in line.
Leila’s bags would be tracked down, an exquisite brunette with bedroom eyes told her at the desk, all the while gazing up at Devlin as if he was a bowl of delicious zabaglione she wanted to sink her very white teeth into. Beneath the brunette’s gaze, Leila felt wildly underdressed in her crisp white shirt and dark trouser suit. What passed for efficient and businesslike in Dublin appeared very boring by Italian standards.
Which phone number would she take? More flirtatious gazing was required for this question, Leila noticed with irritation.
‘My number,’ said Leila crisply, and she gave the other woman a look that said: And I’ve got your number, honey.
‘We will call,’ the brunette said, tossing back luxuriant hair. ‘Ciao,’ she added for Devlin’s benefit.
‘Don’t know what she’s doing on the blinking lost luggage desk,’ muttered Leila, marching out to the arrivals hall. ‘If she keeps flicking her hair back like that, she’ll get whiplash.’
Devlin laughed so loudly that Leila felt even more outraged.
‘And you were encouraging her!’
Realising what she’d said and what it sounded like – wild jealousy – she backtracked. ‘I want my luggage to get to the right place, not get you a date.’
‘Sure,’ agreed Devlin, not even bothering to hide his grin.
On the way to the hotel, Leila sat as far apart from Devlin as the spacious back seat of the limo would allow, and talked nothing but business. Anything to dispel the notion that she might have been jealous. She must be tired. She’d better try to sneak to bed early tonight so as to ready herself for the non-stop work of the conference.
After some hair-raising driving on the autostrada, the driver launched himself into Rome’s traffic with a vengeance. Devlin appeared to zone out as they zipped up and down narrow streets, whizzing perilously past taxis and pedestrians, then suddenly he sat up straight.
‘Leila, that’s a good shop,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘Look.’
He was pointing to a boutique with elegant Italian evening gowns in subtle jewel colours in the window. One was almost entirely backless, and Leila tried to work out whether the person wearing it would be able to get away with knickers. How did he know about evening-wear shops in Rome? Besides, she certainly wasn’t the type of woman to wear slinky dresses which, scandalously, didn’t allow for underwear.
‘A bit dressy for me,’ she said, knowing she sounded like a sourpuss.
They sped past Zara, which had nothing backless or too sexy in the window.
‘I’ll come back here,’ Leila said loudly.
‘Whatever you like,’ Devlin said in a different voice.
No doubt the backless-gown shop had outfits priced in the stratosphere. Presumably at some point in Devlin’s life he’d taken a girlfriend shopping in there. A disquieting image of her boss lounging like a maharaj
ah while his girlfriend preened in front of him in a succession of skimpy outfits flashed into Leila’s mind. Irritated with herself, she took out her phone and began to look at her messages. What was wrong with her? Perhaps it was this city, with its air of eternal romance, making her more acutely aware than usual that she had nobody in her life.
The hotel was a glorious sea of luxury, and Leila wished that she were here for a holiday instead of a conference. When people said things like Your job is so exciting, you get to see so many fabulous places, she always wanted to tell them that all she ever got to see was the inside of her room, the hotel lobby, the inevitable conference room and the lounge in the airport.
‘… and of course, there is the spa,’ said the charming woman checking her in, chatting away in perfect English.
‘Grazie,’ said Leila, which was almost the only Italian she knew. To her shame, she could manage to say thank you in many languages, but not much else. Katy had studied languages at college and was fluent in Italian and French. Howard liked to say he could speak English and profane, which was just the rudest thing ever. Birdie, for all that he never missed an opportunity to put her down, spoke flawless French and Spanish.
Poor Birdie, Leila found herself thinking. For all her own moping, she’d prefer to be a spinster the rest of her days if the alternative was being stuck with a boor like Howard.
Now that she was checked in, she turned to see Devlin chatting away to the hotel receptionist. Probably learned Italian from the same girlfriend with whom he’d gone to the backless-dress shop, Leila thought crossly.
‘I’m going up to my room,’ she announced, and flounced off. He could flirt in privacy now, she decided.
In her hotel room – a deluxe double with a balcony and a large bath with a vast container of lemon bath salts placed enticingly beside it – Leila took control. Clearly stress was turning her into a crosspatch and making her hypersensitive where Devlin was concerned. She was so worried about her mother that any sort of kindness made her well up with tears. She’d read that people under great stress acted in odd ways, and it was proving to be true. What else could explain the urge to fall into Devlin’s arms and sob out the whole story about how utterly responsible she felt for her mother, with no one to turn to, no one to share the burden. What else could explain how very cross she felt when glamorous women chatted him up?