by De-Ann Black
Marina DeMar was glaring daggers at me. Her eyes were telling me I was late. My eyes were warning her to think twice about opening her plum lipstick mouth to even hint at it. The moment passed. I walked the length of the boardroom. Silence. Not one word, just vibes that were so strong you could’ve signaled by satellite on the seething energy. Another day in the life of an independent bitch slayer. By the way, my name’s Blue (Bluebell) Byrne. Welcome to my world.
Chapter One – The Bitch-Proof Suit
If Looks Could Kill
The meeting kicked off with Verde. Oh yes, she was still in Dublin, but she wasn’t going to let the vast expanse of half the globe get in the way. Just typical. She was taking part in the meeting in Manhattan via webcam and her wide blue eyes watched me from the computer monitor as I approached my seat. Her disapproval of me was clear judging by the expression on her pursed pink lips that looked like a pussycat’s ass. Like I cared.
‘Hi, Bluebell,’ she said, with all the false brightness of a fake diamond. ‘Can I give you a brief personal message from Dublin . . .?’
I steeled myself for the flack. Whenever Verde called me Bluebell, it signaled an incoming dose of verbal vitriol. But I was feeling good. Give it your best shot I thought to myself. Unfortunately, her first strike was well below the belt. It hit me like a sucker punch.
‘Morgan says hi,’ she said, in her usual honeyed, husky tone, without letting her smile falter. Ventriloquists had nothing on Verde. ‘We had dinner again together last night and he sends his, eh . . . his regards.’
Yeah, right. Like hell he did. Men like Morgan Daire should come with a warning. Beware. This man will rip your heart out and feed it to the vultures if you’re ever stupid enough to fall for his Irish charm, dimpled smile, sparkling eyes the color of green absinthe and silky dark hair that makes him look like a roguish pirate rather than one of the top movers and shakers in Dublin. Six years ago I’d made that mistake, believing he was the one. I’d spent a year working in Dublin, building contacts, making progress in my career, and I’d stupidly let my guard down and invited him into my life. The biggest mistake I’d ever made.
Morgan was sharp. A Machiavellian bastard to the core. He’d argued that I’d judged him too harshly, that I couldn’t see the real man behind the scathing facade. It was business, it wasn’t personal, he’d said. If there’s one phrase that makes me want to spit fire it’s that one. How if it involves me is it not personal?
He’d had the audacity to say he was actually being kind and that there was no place for me in Dublin or a future for us. He’d effectively jumped on me from a great height, crushing my career aspirations, hopes and dreams in one fell swoop. If that was him being kind, I was in for one hell of a fight when I went back to confront him, to continue where I’d left off, to challenge him on his home turf.
He’d raged at me the night I finally found the courage to pack my bags and leave him, and Dublin, behind. ‘You’re nothing but a marketing mercenary, Blue,’ he’d shouted as I ran across the Ha’penny Bridge over the city’s River Liffey. ‘Go on, run home to New York where you belong.’
And so I did. I threw my mobile phone into the Liffey, got in my hire car and drove to the airport. It had been a harsh goodbye.
Anyway . . .
I smiled calmly at Verde, as if taking the message at face value. Had she scored a point? She wasn’t sure, and that was enough for me. I decided to chalk it up to yet another bad experience of being within ten feet of her, even if she was only on a computer monitor. And if anything, it made me a hundred times more determined to get this job, so in the oddest way, she’d done me a favor.
Indecision is something that really bugs Verde. I could see her flicking her blunt cut, glossy auburn hair in mild annoyance. After a few minutes of Randolph’s introduction to the meeting, Verde had another run at me, just to be sure she’d put the knife in deep enough. I bet she wondered if I’d found someone else. Maybe Morgan Daire was indeed history and I didn’t give a damn about him. Of course, this wasn’t true. The hurt had mellowed, but it still bothered me when I thought about him, and how things could have been.
‘You’re looking . . .’ Verde began, and then she couldn’t find anything snide to say about my appearance. The bitch–proof suit was working. She didn’t know what to pick on. Okay, so she could have said I looked tired (which I didn’t, but that usually deflates most women’s confidence), in need of a facial (ditto), or anything else, but when I wear this suit, it seems to disconcert those who’d like to undermine me. And the beauty of it is, they can’t quite pinpoint why — the whole thing is subliminal. All that happens is that they get a feeling of not being able to dish out their usual spiteful comments. It has that effect. You see, no one knows this suit is designed to fight off bitchy attacks and protect the wearer from venomous remarks. It works ninety percent of the time, which is a huge bonus as far as I’m concerned. Anything to help water down the verbal poison gets my vote.
I’d never told anyone here about my suit. It was my secret. If I even hinted to Verde about its design, I could risk ruining its effectiveness. And I’d never do that. In fact, I have variations on its theme. You can’t possibly wear the same look all the time. It’s not a uniform. So I’ve also got a basic black and a classic plaid — and even a red hot scarlet version for specific occasions. However, I have to say, the gray ensemble is the ultimate bitch–proof suit, and I really needed it for the meeting.
Verde’s voice sliced through the air. ‘We all know why we’re here. Fashion is in a rut. Our clients are relying on us to find out where the industry’s future lies. We’ve got to go beyond our usual coolhunting territory and scan the globe for the next big thing.’
I started to tune out. It was like listening to the commercials before watching a movie. I wished she’d just cut to the chase. We always heard the same old blurb about how the company was built on being one step ahead of the pack. How fashion trends were more difficult to pin down than a firefly. Firefly my ass. Each decade of the twentieth century, barring the nineties, had a very specific look. Now it was my job to find out what the future looked like. Some call it coolhunting. I call it futurehunting. I’ve got a degree in marketing, studied fashion and design, and I’d merged these skills to carve a niche for myself in Randolph’s marketing company as a new futurehunter. I’d worked for him since I was twenty, and for the past eight years I’d been searching for what was hot and predicting what the market wanted. This information was filtered down to the fashion designers and peripheral industries. Sometimes they used the data, sometimes not, but it was exciting to be part of the process.
‘Blue, we’ll start by hearing your take on things,’ Verde said briskly.
Here we go, I thought. But I was ready.
‘We’ve got to look to the future,’ I said, sitting where I was, and keeping my notes firmly closed.
‘You’re not suggesting some stupid spacey fashions,’ Marina chipped in.
‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘Silver suits and space age wear isn’t where the future lies. I wouldn’t want to hit the shops dressed in aluminum regardless of the labels.’
‘Women need something new,’ said Randolph. He spread his arms and glanced around the boardroom. ‘We all want something new.’
‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘No one in this company has found it yet. Not in New York or anywhere else. I reckon Dublin’s pretty cool — a cosmopolitan city where innovative ideas are bubbling under the surface. I want to be the one to find them.’
Verde cleared her throat, for attention and effect. ‘Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, Bluebell, but I’m in Dublin right now, working on that precise thing.’
‘And you’ve been there since when . . .?’ I said.
‘January.’
‘This is what . . . the beginning of summer? I haven’t read any of your reports on finding the niche of fashion gold we’re searching for, Verde.’ I was sailing very close to the wind with this one.
If looks could kill,
I’d be toes up in the bone yard.
Marina decided to throw her opinion into the ring, which thankfully took the heat of me. ‘It was agreed last year that Dublin was an untapped source of designer talent, of fresh creations, and that’s why Verde spearheaded the new offices there. We just need the right coolhunter to track them down.’ She took a deep breath. The bitch was biting to get out. ‘I have to agree with Blue’s snide conjecture that you’ve failed miserably and that someone else, someone younger, needs to go there to do the real job. While of course you continue to run the show in Dublin behind the scenes.’
Not only was Marina standing on thin ice, she was skating her way down the slippery slope to nowhere fast. We all knew Marina was Randolph’s protégé but even he had his limits. It was one thing to insinuate, it was quite another to say she’d failed miserably and then add the killer twist — that Verde was way past her sell–by–date. Call me shallow, but inside I was cheering. I was mentally wearing a little ra–ra skirt and waving my cheerleading pom poms in the air. Marina was out of the contest.
A moment’s lull, like an icy breeze, wafted through the boardroom then disappeared rather like Marina’s career was destined to do.
Across the table, Azuree was flicking through her notes and getting set to argue why she should go to the Emerald Isle. For entertainment value alone, I didn’t want to miss it. Judging by the tired glaze behind her eyes, she’d had precious little sleep the previous night. If I knew Azuree, she’d been cramming for the meeting like it was a college exam. A sure sign of an amateur. If she didn’t know her marketing statistics by now, she wasn’t up to the task. No amount of meticulously applied under eye concealer could hide the fact that she was out of her league.
One by one the main contenders for the job bit the proverbial dust.
‘Right!’ Randolph finally announced. ‘I’ve had enough of this farce.’ He nodded to Verde who made no bid to disagree. Clearly she’d had enough too. The stress of listening to fifteen pitches for glory had actually taken the glow off her face and her blush was more pallor than perfect. Randolph put his hands on the table, fists clenched. ‘Blue. You’re going to Dublin.’
‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling.
‘And remember,’ Verde added, ‘fuck this up and you’re history.’
With this bolstering thought, the meeting was over.
As everyone poured out of the boardroom, Randolph took me aside. ‘I want you to contact someone when you get to Dublin. He’s set up an office in the city. Sears Pearson.’
‘Sears?’ I said, momentarily dropping my guard. I hadn’t heard that name in a long time.
He handed me a business card with the contact details. ‘Look him up. Find out what he’s up to. He’s always been a ruthless son of a bitch.’
I took the card.
‘E–mail me the details, Blue. Don’t go through Verde.’
I nodded. He didn’t have to explain. Sears and Verde had a history, not of love but of war. I never knew what the scandal was, but suffice to say, Sears hated her more than most.
I slipped the card into my bag and walked away. Sears Pearson. It was like hearing about a ghost from the past. He’d been the only one to offer any sympathy when I’d been screwed over in Dublin by Morgan. At the time, Sears was working freelance for Randolph in the Manhattan office, but then he struck out on his own. Our paths hadn’t crossed since then. If he was in Dublin, then we were right on the money. There must be new designs, styles and fabrics to be gleaned in Ireland. Sears was one of the best coolhunters in the business and made a small fortune out of predicting future markets. He also happened to be heart–meltingly gorgeous. Blonde, over six foot tall, with sculptured features, a honed physique and style of dress that could only be described as timeless. You could take Sears and put him straight into one of those movies where the hero strides across the desert, golden hair and sapphire blue eyes glinting in the sunlight.
I’d never thought of Sears as potential relationship material when I’d worked with him. I’d sort of put him in the untouchable category, like my best friend, Harry. Harry was sublime. Women adored him. He worked in the city doing stockbroker stuff. We’d been friends since college and shared an apartment in Manhattan. Harry had promised to look after things while I was away fighting the dragons in Dublin. I’d been friends with him for too long for it to be anything else but platonic. I guess that’s how I’d always thought about Sears, or was it? There was no time to even think about that. Dublin was beckoning. I had to get my act together.
I walked out of the boardroom.
‘Fuck you!’ Marina whispered as we passed in the doorway. Her eyes were almost alight with the hatred she felt for me.
I paused, and looked right at her. I’ve been told that the coldness of my pale gray eyes is soul destroying. I held her gaze.
Within seconds she backed down, flicking her hair, glancing at my bitch–proof suit that in close up was every bit as intimidating as at a distance. What was she going to criticize? The color, cut and everything about it was a shield against the typical bitch. No holes in this outfit, real or otherwise. I didn’t have to say anything. She stomped off, her killer heels sounding like an empty echo on the polished wooden floor.
Paper tiger were the words that brushed through my thoughts as I heard the last of her disappear into the elevator. A deep breath later, I took a call on my phone from Randolph’s assistant confirming my flight schedule to the one place I swore I’d never go back to. Six years ago I’d left Dublin behind, sure that I’d never return. It had almost destroyed me once, but hell . . . I love a challenge!
End of sample chapters from The Bitch-Proof Suit.
About De-ann Black
De-ann Black is a bestselling author, scriptwriter and former newspaper journalist. Traditionally published for over 15 years.
She has over 40 books published, for adults (romance, crime thrillers, espionage/suspense novels) and children (non-fiction rocket science books, children's fiction and picture books).
Her books include Special Forces and crime thriller books - Guile, The Strife of Riley, and Moth to the Flame. Romantic comedies include - The Bitch-Proof Suit, The Cure For Love, and Oops! I'm the Paparazzi.
De-ann's latest children's fiction books are: Secondhand Spooks - December 32nd, Faeriefied, and School for Aliens.
She previously worked as a full-time newspaper journalist for several years. She had her own weekly columns in the press. This included being a motoring correspondent where she got to test drive cars every week for the press for three years.
She is also a professional artist and illustrator. And photographer.
Additionally, De-ann has always been interested in fitness, and was a fitness and bodybuilding champion, 100 metre runner and mountaineer. As a former N.A.B.B.A. Miss Scotland, she had a weekly fitness show on the radio that ran for over three years.
De-ann trained in Shukokai karate, boxing, kickboxing, Dayan Qigong, and Jiu Jitsu.
She splits her time between Scotland, Dublin and London.
Find out more at http://www.de-annblack.com