by Cathy Kelly
She opened the minibar, gulped down some sparkling water, then checked her emails to remind herself that she was Leila Martin, career woman. When that was done, she removed the heavy gadgetry from her handbag, applied fresh lipstick and marched out of her room.
The concierge was helpful but said apologetically that the store in the hotel itself was geared to holiday wear rather than business attire.
‘You go this way, signora,’ he said, drawing lines on a small map of the city, ‘and you will find many shops.’
Leila followed the map, walking briskly until she came to a small department store. At home, suits for working women tended to be in dark, neutral shades, but here, even in February, there were suits in jewel colours and in far more luxurious fabrics than Leila normally wore.
She stroked a velvet fitted jacket in a dark ruby and winced at the price. Damn missing luggage. She had a perfectly nice navy jacket not unlike this at home, but not in velvet and not with a heart-attack-inducing price tag.
No, Leila, she told herself. After a lifetime of not wasting money, of watching the pennies, reckless indulgence was alien to her. She shopped in the sales and budgeted down to the last cent – with the mortgage to pay by herself, she couldn’t afford to do otherwise. She had to rely on accessorising with jewellery, shoes and scarves to make the same old pieces look different.
She wandered over to the evening wear, hoping to find a little glam camisole she could wear under the jacket she’d travelled in. With a bit of shiny red lip gloss …
Then she saw it: an evening dress on a mannequin in a shimmering pewter colour, a sliver of bias-cut silk like an exquisite nightgown turned into a dress. It wasn’t backless, but the embroidered spaghetti straps criss-crossed at the back meant a bra was out of the question. Wordlessly Leila touched the dress, and a shop assistant materialised by her side as if from nowhere.
The assistant began speaking in Italian and when Leila shook her head apologetically and said, ‘English, signora…?’ she switched effortlessly to English.
‘Can I help you?’
Without knowing what she was doing, and even more importantly, without checking the price, Leila asked if they had one in her size.
In the luxurious dressing room, she shimmied into the dress. Skin-tight clothing had never been her thing. She’d occasionally worn the black bandage dress Tynan had encouraged her to buy, but only to please him. Instead of feeling sexy, she’d felt self-conscious in it, sure that only a sleek, tanned, six-foot, eight-stone Amazon would look good in such a dress – not a five-foot-two midget with pale skin and definite curves.
But this … this dress managed to reveal and conceal at the same time, clinging perfectly to her breasts, skimming over her belly and flaring out beautifully over her hips. It came to a halt just above the thinnest part of her ankle, making her look gloriously delicate.
She took off the big masculine watch she wore. Without it, her wrists looked delicate too.
How could one dress do such a thing?
‘You like?’ asked the assistant outside the curtain. ‘It is good dress, yes?’
‘It’s a miracle dress,’ breathed Leila, turning every which way and finding out that she looked better than she ever had from every angle. ‘I hate shopping normally. Do you have ten more like it?’
‘I have more from that designer,’ the assistant said. ‘He is Italian, he understands women’s bodies. He is not expensive, not yet. For now he is not discovered by the world – but he will be.’
In her handbag, Leila found her darker lipstick and slicked some on, then ruffled up her hair with her hands. She looked wildly sexy, different – and she liked it.
‘Here.’ The assistant drew back the curtain and held out an armful of clothes. ‘Try these.’
On the final night, Leila took the pewter silk dress from the wardrobe and looked critically at it. She hadn’t tried it on since she returned from her shopping expedition. Now that she’d bought it, and several more of the same brand – too much money, stuck on her credit card – she’d convinced herself that she must have been in a strange trance, overwhelmed by the clothes, the ambience of the department store, tricked into imagining she was someone she was not. It was Devlin and that blasted evening-dress shop. She’d been caught in a stupid fantasy about him and her, and hell – she must have been mad.
Stress had a lot to answer for.
Her suitcase had still not turned up. Each time she called to check, the airline could only offer apologies. Eventually Leila had told them that if it turned up, they should send it on to the Eclipse offices in Dublin. She’d bought several T-shirts, a couple of blouses, a plain black skirt and underwear, and now had enough to last until she flew home. At least the compensation from the airline would help pay for her new suitcase and some of her new clothes. She had hair products, bought in the hotel, to tame her hair into sleekness.
What she didn’t have was an alternative outfit for the dinner, other than a variation on the suit-and-elegant-top combo. But everyone else would be in evening wear, and the dress was the only evening item she had. Fresh from the bath, with her hair still wild and untamed, she held it up to herself and stood in front of the mirror.
There was something about the light in either Rome or the hotel room: something seductive and soothing, something that gilded every beam with enough warmth to make what would seem outrageous at home appear perfectly normal here.
She’d wear it. She’d try something different with her hair, too, she decided recklessly. When in Rome …
Devlin was having a pre-dinner drink with his opposite number from France in the hotel bar just across from the restaurant. They were comparing figures, discussing forthcoming films and generally shooting the breeze when, in the distance, Devlin saw the small figure with the mass of rippling blonde hair. The low lighting in the bar made it look as if the woman was dressed in molten metal, metal that clung its way around the most incredibly sexy figure.
‘I must compliment you on your choice of female staff,’ murmured the French CEO, Georges, following his gaze.
‘What?’ said Devlin, confused.
‘Your Mademoiselle Martin – beautiful and efficient, the perfect combination, non?’
Devlin had stopped listening after hearing the name. The molten-metal woman with the liquid curves and the Botticelli angel curls was Leila?
She was walking towards them.
Eamonn Devlin, who’d grown up with self-confidence, self-assurance and all the other selves necessary to progress in both the world of business and that of women, felt entirely and unexpectedly thrown.
‘Leila!’
Georges had risen to his feet and was greeting her in honeyed tones with an unmistakable hint of flirtation, leaning forward and kissing her hand.
Devlin grinned to himself. Leila wouldn’t like that.
But no. She was smiling at Georges, seemingly enjoying it all.
‘Thank you, Georges,’ she was saying, her own voice verging on the husky now that he thought about it. ‘My suitcase went missing and I was clothes-less.’
‘I’d like to say what an interesting picture that makes,’ purred Georges, ‘but I am aware of the zero-tolerance policy Eclipse has when it comes to what is called sexual harassment.’
Leila, who had lectured everyone who’d ever worked under her about how firmly the zero-tolerance policy was enforced in the Irish office, beamed at him.
The Georges of this world never harassed; they were too instinctive in their flirting. If the minute signals of reciprocation were not there, they would immediately withdraw discreetly. For a brief moment, Leila gloried in her new self in the confidence-boosting magical dress and flirted back.
After listening to them for about a minute, Devlin could take it no longer.
‘Leila,’ he said abruptly, ‘I’m sorry to break this up, but we must talk about an email I had from the office.’
It was the best he could do at short notice, and Leila managed to drag her ga
ze away from Georges to look at him.
‘Fine,’ she said.
‘Later,’ Georges said, eyes sweeping up and down her figure yet again.
‘See you inside,’ Devlin said stiffly to the Frenchman, then got to his feet and led Leila away to a free table, where he sat and took out his smartphone in search of some suitable email to discuss.
Leila sat opposite him, still looking incredible in that amazing dress.
Devlin, who’d thought he had it all under control, had to say something.
‘Don’t fall for Georges’s schmoozing,’ he finally muttered.
‘It wasn’t schmoozing,’ said Leila crisply. ‘He was being charming.’
‘He’s charmingly married,’ Devlin informed her.
‘Oh.’ Jolted, Leila sat back in her seat. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘Well now you do. Unless that doesn’t bother you,’ he added nastily, and then instantly wished he hadn’t.
Leila was silent, but her face was angry. How dare Devlin say that to her?
‘It would bother me,’ she said, each word enunciated perfectly. Pity it hadn’t bothered Diane. ‘Was that why you called me away?’ she asked. ‘To tell me that?’
Devlin didn’t blink. ‘Yes,’ he said, taking the high ground.
‘Thank you, but you needn’t have bothered,’ she said coolly. ‘I’m here to work, and if Georges was being a little complimentary, I can assure you it was going nowhere. I don’t flirt wildly with everyone I see – not like some,’ she added, thinking of the girl at the lost luggage and the hotel receptionist. ‘I’ll see you inside at the dinner.’
She got up and swept past him regally, but the moment she knew she was out of sight, she swerved in the direction of the ladies’ room. Her mascara hadn’t started to run yet, but it would have if she hadn’t stuck tissues under each eye instantly to catch the brimming tears. What was wrong with her? And what was wrong with Devlin, if it came to that?
He was normally the most convivial of bosses – to her, anyway. What had changed him?
The ballroom of the hotel was full of people Leila had known for years. She was glad of her pewter dress, because it gave her a confidence she wouldn’t have had otherwise – Devlin had managed to rip that away from her. She felt so … hurt, that was it. Which made no sense at all.
But there was no time to work out why her boss’s reaction had made her feel like that, because she had to swing into work mode.
As she moved through the room, exchanging hugs or handshakes or kisses with colleagues from all over Europe and America, many of them told her how fabulous she looked.
Jokingly, she brushed the compliments aside. ‘You mean I didn’t look fabulous before?’ she’d tease, and then follow it up with, ‘But you look wonderful too. Are you still running? It really suits you.’
At least here she didn’t have to put up with the endless questions about Tynan.
The first time she’d met up with the London team after Tynan had walked out, she’d spent the day grinding her teeth and trying not to cry when people casually asked how her husband was. There really was no right way to say He dumped me for a younger, thinner woman.
Eventually, she tracked down her table and saw that she’d been placed next to Devlin. The other guests – including someone she’d met already from LA, and the Spanish MD – were already there, so after a flurry of hellos, she realised she couldn’t possibly switch the place cards. At best it would look odd; at worst it would be interpreted as a sign that she and her boss were not getting on.
The people from Eclipse were the best and the brightest and they noticed everything. So she sat, smiling fixedly as she pulled her gilt chair as far away from his as possible.
By the time Devlin rolled up, she was ostentatiously talking to her left-hand neighbour, a slim, handsome San Franciscan named Greg, who was drinking bottled water and waving away the baffled wine waiters with their vintage red and white while intently discussing one of the studio’s smaller movies, which was based on a Flannery O’Connor short story and was a film he felt could do well at the Sundance festival.
‘It’s hard to say if it will make any money,’ he said. ‘There’s always the alternative of upping the marketing budget and pushing it into the Oscar box with dollars, but I just don’t think they’re going to do it with this one. Which is a pity. It’s got real heart, real character …’
Craning her neck, Leila was surreptitiously checking out what Devlin was up to. His next-door neighbour was a chic fifty-something Spanish woman clad in what could only be Carolina Herrera. Unlike the women he had met with Leila so far on their trip, she gave off the distinct vibe of you can look but do not touch. Ha! Leila thought. Serves you right, Devlin.
The night seemed to drag on for ever. There were speeches, lovely food, as much wine as you could drink if you wanted it. But after one glass, Leila wisely said no. She was flying home at nine the following morning and she needed to be up at half six at the latest if she wanted to be ready.
Partying too hard at conferences was a mistake only newcomers made.
Finally the meal and the speeches were over and a local band, much applauded, came on stage to play.
‘I wonder, would it be OK to leave now?’ Greg asked her, looking around. ‘I’m still a bit jet-lagged and I’m flying to Tokyo tomorrow. I’m going to pop a melatonin and try to crash.’
‘I’m sure you’re absolutely fine to leave,’ Leila said. ‘Go on, the lights are down, nobody’s looking. Just pretend you’re walking off to the restroom and never come back.’
It was a trick she’d used many a time in the past. That night with Tynan in Berlin came to mind. She’d been so tired, but she didn’t want to stop Tynan having the evening of his life with his beloved band on their first European tour. He was the only person she’d said goodbye to before she slipped back to their hotel room. With hindsight, that hadn’t been a very bright thing to do, but then if Tynan was going to cheat, he was going to cheat.
The realisation hit her like a haymaker punch to the heart.
She hadn’t let him cheat. It hadn’t happened simply because she’d given him the opportunity. It wasn’t her fault for stepping aside and allowing Diane to get her claws into him. No, Tynan had decided he wanted something else, and he’d gone and got it.
It was as inevitable as a coke addict seizing the opportunity to set out a line of white powder. It made no difference how much their wife, best friend or mother begged them not to. They were hooked on the thrill, and regardless of what anyone said, whatever promises they made, they would not be deterred.
It was their choice.
Leila hadn’t failed in her marriage. Her husband had failed at being a husband. Her only fault had been trusting him in the first place.
She smiled at dear, sweet Greg, realising he’d no idea that he’d just helped her come to a new understanding.
‘Greg, leave now. You need the sleep,’ she said calmly. ‘Go get it. There are no extra points for staying late and then being too shattered to accomplish what you’ve got to do in Tokyo tomorrow, right?’
‘Right.’ Greg kissed her lightly on both cheeks. ‘You should come work for me – I need someone with your smarts.’
‘Oh, I’m happy where I am,’ Leila said, smiling. ‘For the moment, anyhow.’
With her neighbour gone, she saw Devlin dragging his chair closer to hers. He was obviously tired of conversing with the Spanish MD and she wondered whether he’d overheard Greg saying she should come and work in California.
‘So,’ he said gruffly, ‘enjoying yourself?’
‘Yes, it’s been lovely. And you?’ she asked politely.
They were like a pair of dowager duchesses meeting at a ball.
‘Fine, fine,’ he said.
The band started up. They were good, a tight unit – the years with Tynan, when he’d go through an entire band, player by player, working out if they were good or mediocre, posturing or possessing the magic, had taught Leila h
ow to judge. They were playing some sort of Europop, which she liked. Tynan would have hated it, she thought with a grin. He’d have stomped out at the first chord, protesting that he wasn’t going to poison himself by listening to this rubbish.
People were dancing now – not in couples, just people in little groups. She might dance, let her hair down a little, just move for the fun of it, because there was no Tynan to tell her that Europop was rubbish and she had no soul if she listened to the wrong sort of music. She’d listen to what she wanted. She, Leila Martin, was free in many, many ways.
‘I’m going to dance,’ she said to Devlin, getting to her feet.
In an instant Devlin was beside her, towering over her.
‘I’ll come too,’ he said.
She looked at him in astonishment.
‘If you like,’ she said, shrugging.
She shouldn’t have lost her temper earlier. It had been crazy and irrational. He was her boss, after all, and it was stupid to let her emotions get the better of her. Having little tantrums because Devlin liked flirting with women was incredibly stupid. He was nothing to her except her boss – and a good boss at that, she told herself firmly.
Leila didn’t want to become one of those women who needed a man at all times. She was on her own, she was doing fine.
Together they moved on to the dance floor. Even though she didn’t know the music, it was such an energetic beat that Leila found herself dancing wildly, twirling around in her pewter dress. Devlin leaned down close to her.
‘Have you been drinking?’ he asked, and she laughed in his face, giggling uproariously.
‘No,’ she yelled back over the music. ‘I just want to feel free and unfettered for a change – and what better way to do that than to dance?’