Mr Right for the Night

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Mr Right for the Night Page 13

by Marisa Mackle


  Claire sat on the chocolate-coloured leather armchair, her hands choking the neck of the wine bottle. She switched on the TV and promptly turned it off again. She took another long slug of wine and began to feel more optimistic. Things would have to change around here. It was simply a matter of working things out. But she would have to play her part too. No more unwaxed legs, unplucked eyebrows, chipped nails, unwashed hair and flaky skin. These days Claire rarely bothered to brush her hair unless it was for a dinner party or something. Madness. No wonder Simon preferred a night out with a bunch of slappers than a dull evening in with his plain Jane wife. Maybe one of those slappers would end up getting her wicked way with Simon. Claire frowned at the bottle. According to Anna, the women around town had very low morals and would sink their false fingernails into your man before you knew what hit you. Apparently the ratio in Dublin was two women to every man. There weren’t enough single men to go round.

  It was unnerving to think that someone could take Simon if they desperately wanted him. A man’s willpower wasn’t as strong as a woman’s. If Claire was silly enough to drive her husband away with her moaning and moping, she was her own worst enemy. She drank a little more and started to cheer up. Everything was in her hands. She was going to make this the happiest marriage ever. Herself and Simon would be the ideal Hello! couple. Victoria Reddin would be envious when she turned up on her doorstep with her adoring husband. She wouldn’t turn up her nose and say ‘very nice’ then.

  It was late. She’d go to bed. She’d put on her sexiest nightie instead of the old tracksuit she’d got used to sleeping in. Maybe Simon would want to make mad passionate love to her when he got home. She was his wife. She was young. She was pretty. Still. And they said women hit their sexual peak sometime in their thirties. This was not the time to let herself go.

  She popped into the baby room. Andrew was breathing softly. Claire smiled. It was a miracle that herself and Simon had produced this incredible little being. She had to make this marriage work for Andrew’s sake. She shut the door quietly.

  Slipping on a flimsy nightie, Claire sank onto the huge bed with feather pillows and sumptuous duvet. She remembered buying this bed. The marital bed. She’d felt so grown up in the furniture shop discussing the different types of beds with the salesman. The mattress couldn’t be too soft because Simon’s back wasn’t the best. And the bed with the shelves underneath would probably be the best-buy. Nothing too fancy or too fashionable. Because they didn’t intend replacing it every couple of years. And nothing too ridiculous either, like a four-poster, say.

  They’d had a lot of fun in that bed, Claire gave a little smile. Of course, these days it was used for sleeping and not much else. Andrew’s arrival had made sure of that.

  It was funny, the baby had dominated every waking hour of his first few months in the world. Claire’s unobtainable dream had been an uninterrupted night’s sleep. Now she longed for something else. A bit of passion. Some spice. She remembered an article she’d read in the dentist’s waiting room. It was all about jazzing up your sex life. It wasn’t the type of thing you’d like people to see you reading. Some of the tips were bizarre. Like dressing up as a maid. Claire knew that that was out of the question. Sure if Simon saw her in an apron and a frilly white hat, he’d presume she was doing a massive spring clean. If she messed around with chocolate sauce, Simon would be furious for soiling the bed clothes. There’d been a number that you could ring to order a catalogue. But suppose they delivered it to Mrs Murphy next door by mistake?

  Anyway, surely the tips were for people married a long time? Or weird people. Not for a normal healthy young couple. No, there had to be a better solution than resorting to shameful sex toys. Suppose they had a fire that burned everything except the glow-in-the-dark dildo? Or suppose Anna called over one night when they were away to feed Blackie and stumbled across a box of canary-coloured condoms. After all people couldn’t help having a little snoop around. Even though they’d rather die than admit it.

  Claire had to start re-igniting the flames of passion. Simon would then see her as a woman once more. Not just the mother of his son. She’d have to stop talking about nappies et cetera. ‘There’s nothing as dull as a woman who can talk about nothing other than her offspring,’ her mother had once said. She’d been right.

  Claire awoke in the darkness to the sound of rain thundering on the roof. She sat bolt upright in the bed. Where was Simon? A wave of cold perspiration engulfed her. Her mind was racing. What had happened to him? Why hadn’t he come home? She leapt from the bed and tore into the spare room. The neatly made single bed hadn’t been touched. She ran to the window and pulled back the curtains. The car was gone. Oh God, suppose he’d crashed? Suppose he was lying in a ditch somewhere covered in blood? Caught in a whirlwind of panic she thought about ringing the police. But they might laugh at her paranoia. They probably knew about husbands who stayed away for the night. She returned to the main bedroom and tried Simon’s mobile. ‘The customer you are calling is unavailable. Please try again.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Anna was single again.

  Steve had sat up in the bed on Saturday morning and decided the relationship was affecting his studies. Anna also sat up and lit a cigarette. A spring dawn was creeping through the curtains making the room look yellow. She inhaled the smoke deeply and wondered how she could leave the room with her dignity still intact.

  A little something in Anna had died, as it did when any man suddenly decided he didn’t want to share his life with her any more. It was an ego thing. It bruised her. She knew the whole ‘studying’ thing was rubbish. Women weren’t as naı¨ve as men thought. But thankfully she wasn’t that cut up. Perhaps the fact that Steve had given her the boot before made it easier. At least she didn’t have that terrible sense of despair she’d felt in the past – that she’d never ever again find someone else to love. Realistically she knew she didn’t love Steve.

  He was a nice guy, a nice young guy who simply had neither the time, the money nor the interest to take her out.

  Life went on. She’d learned that much over the years. She was mature now. No more bombarding her ex-loves with frantic phone calls, telling them she thought they were different, as if guilt could somehow make them come back. No more slamming down phones hysterically, mourning for days and then going out and repeating the process all over again.

  She was all grown up now, or so she liked to think. She wouldn’t be twenty again for anything. How had she walked around with so little self-respect? God, it seemed like yesterday. Those days spent hanging around student bars throwing herself at guys who showed zero interest. Guys who’d eventually got off with her because they were so drunk and she’d just happened to be there. A horrible thought struck her. If twenty seemed like yesterday, then forty was like . . . like tomorrow. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

  ‘I agree with you,’ she told Steve, reaching for an empty coke can to deposit her cigarette butt.

  ‘If you don’t start slogging now, you’ve a lousy life ahead of you.’

  Steve didn’t seem too delighted by her enthusiasm.

  ‘You sound like you wanted this too,’ he said.

  ‘You’re right.’ Anna reached for her T-shirt and yanked it over her head. Her smile was practically sellotaped on. ‘I’ve kind of moved on . . . met someone else . . . someone older,’ she grinned plastically, knowing how much that would hurt.

  ‘Right,’ said Steve.

  ‘Right,’ said Anna. ‘Now where are my socks?’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Like a warrior bracing for battle Claire pushed Andrew’s buggy down Dún Laoighaire pier. She didn’t see the young couples strolling arm in arm alongside her. Didn’t notice the kids racing in circles around her or the excited dogs barking joyfully, delighted with their weekly dose of fresh air. She saw only the pale Irish sky and bleak uncertainty ahead. She hadn’t slept at all last night. Simon had arrived home this morning. At seven.

  He’d sho
wered wordlessly and left again. No explanations.

  She’d thrown his shirt, tinged with cigarette smoke and beer stains in the wash along with Andrew’s soiled bibs. How in the world could their marriage survive this kind of carry on?

  Reaching the end of the pier, she settled herself on one of the benches and resumed normal breathing. The wind was playing havoc with her hair and she punished it by trapping it in a scrunchie. As usual the sun was dancing over the hills at Howth. Why didn’t she just go and live there, she thought wearily.

  ‘Still here?’ A hand on her shoulder made her start.

  ‘Tom!’ Her face broke into a smile upon recognizing him. ‘How’s it going? It’s nice to see you again.’

  ‘Ditto,’ he laughed and patted Andrew’s curly head.

  She hadn’t honestly expected to bump into him again so soon. Though she had to admit, the meeting wasn’t totally unexpected. He’d told her he walked the pier regularly.

  He sat down beside her.

  ‘Guess what? I spoke to Emma yesterday. She’s made it to Australia and is loving it.’

  ‘Great.’ His face lit up. ‘I’m delighted for her.’

  ‘Yeah, it makes me feel jealous. I should have taken the plunge and done it myself.’

  ‘Oz is great. I think the climate has a lot to do with it. The sun puts people in a great mood.’

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever get there now.’ Claire twiddled her ponytail. ‘I’m too old.’

  ‘Would you go away out of that? Sure, you’re only a young thing,’ Tom said generously.

  ‘Thanks. The fresh air out here makes me feel young.’

  ‘It certainly does blow away those work cob-webs.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘I’m a computer analyst.’

  ‘God. No wonder you spend half your life here.’

  ‘Well it pays the bills. But it’s far from fascinating. Ideally I’d like to paint full time. I’m mad about art . . . but that won’t keep the wolf from the door. What do you do yourself ?’

  ‘I’m a housewife.’ Claire felt herself go crimson. Christ, she felt so old-fashioned. Like she’d suddenly arrived from another era. The word ‘housewife’ was horrible. It sounded like you were married to your house or something.

  ‘Goo ga goo . . .’ Andrew interrupted as if on cue. They both laughed.

  ‘I think that’s great,’ Tom said diplomatically. ‘If I’d . . . if I’d ever got married,’ he continued very quietly, ‘I’d have liked to support my wife.’

  ‘That’s what you think,’ Claire said tonelessly, ‘but what would have happened when the glamorous woman you fell in love with turned into a dowdy frump who talked about nothing but the price of Pampers?’

  Tom turned to her, startled. With horror Claire realized her massive blunder. God, how could she be so senseless? Tom had lost the woman he’d wanted to marry. Of course he’d never thought of her as a frump. For the rest of his life he’d remember her as she was – young, vibrant and in love with life. For a moment Claire felt strangely jealous of the dead woman. She’d never grow old. He’d never get the chance to get sick of her.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I really didn’t mean what I said,’ the words stumbled out awkwardly. She rose unsteadily.

  He extended a hand and pulled her down again. His eyes searched hers. ‘You surely don’t think . . . you don’t think of yourself as a . . . ?’

  ‘No.’ Claire stared at the concrete beneath her feet.

  ‘Because––’ he said and stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Because . . . oh God, I don’t know if it’s my place to say it but you’re one of the most attractive girls I’ve ever met.’

  And he turned away quickly before he could see her face.

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  Outside head office, Anna plucked a few fair hairs off her black business-like suit. Trembling, she tried to light a cigarette. The wind would simply not allow it. Damn. This wouldn’t do at all. Her nerves were in bits. Glancing at her watch, she realized she’d fifteen minutes to kill. Sitting in the reception area like a spare tool was not an option. Refuge was sought in a nearby café.

  She ordered a black coffee, which burnt her tongue. She set the cup down again and managed to successfully light her cigarette. Why was she so bloody excited? A few weeks ago she hadn’t given a hoot. But a lot had happened since then – Elaine’s hostility, June’s perpetual I know you’re going to fail, loser smirk, Steve and Jake’s rapid disappearance. She had to get this job. If only for her self-esteem. She had to.

  Anna noticed to her dismay that the tiny inconspicuous hole in her barely black tights had suddenly expanded and a ladder was subsequently riding up her thigh. Oh Christ, why? She pulled down her knee-length skirt as far as it would go. Not a hell of a lot else could be done now.

  ‘What are the individual qualities you feel you could bring to the new position?’ Mr Walton pushed his glasses back onto his nose.

  Anna took a deep breath before she answered.

  ‘Professionalism, dedication . . .’

  ‘Dedication, hmmm.’ Mr Walton wrote something down. His assistant was not with him today. Was she on leave? Had she resigned? What did it matter? Anna chided herself. Why was she contemplating such ridiculous trivialities during what was probably the most important interview of her life.

  She sat rigidly in her seat under the scrutinizing gaze of her interviewer, whose forbears, she imagined, could have sat on the Spanish Inquisition. His questioning was thorough.

  ‘We have over fifty internal applicants for this position, Miss Allstone. Tell me why we should choose you over all these highly competent applicants?’

  Fifty applicants! Jesus, she didn’t have a hope.

  ‘Because I badly want it, Mr Walton.’ Anna strove to put into her voice the professionalism and enthusiasm that she knew were called for. ‘Because I assure you I’m the best person for the job and if you give me this position I won’t let you down.’

  Mr Walton looked vaguely satisfied by this response. He adjusted his spectacles once more, leaned back and carefully contemplated his interviewee.

  ‘How do you feel about relocating?’ he threw at her.

  ‘I’d welcome the change,’ Anna replied levelly. ‘It would broaden my horizons and give me a chance to discover a different side of Lolta’s. I’m willing to learn all that I can.’

  ‘Do you believe you can sufficiently cope with the enormity of this particular challenge?’ he asked as if he were sizing her up for the position of chief executive.

  ‘I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,’ said Anna and prayed hard that this man would believe her.

  Ten minutes later found her shivering at the bus stop, willing the number 13 to arrive. She thought the interview had gone okay, but she couldn’t tell for sure. After all, the last one had felt pretty disastrous and she’d got it. Mr Walton said they’d be in touch before the end of the week. But his face had remained blank. She buttoned up her coat. An unforgiving wind whipped her ears. God, it was cold. A bus with a sign saying Out of Service raised false hopes.

  Eventually Anna reached the empty house. Wearily she pushed the door open, glad that Steve was studying so hard that she wouldn’t have to bump into him. What was it with her and men? What did she do to push them away? If she were thinner would it make a difference? Not that she was particularly large or anything but thin girls weren’t used and then discarded like empty beer cans. Thin ruled.

  Anna sat alone in front of the TV seeing nothing. She poured herself a well-deserved glass of wine and opened a box of sour cream and onion Pringles. She popped one and then another. It was true what they said about popping and not stopping. She lit a cigarette. Puffing away, she pondered her luck with men. Or ill luck rather. Claire was lucky. She’d never really had any problems with men, didn’t know what it was like to pine for someone, didn’t know what it was like to lie awake all night praying for some man to notice her. A
nna knew all about that. She knew what it was like to be choked with pain when men failed to reciprocate your feelings, and to know that although the ones you desperately wanted, would court you, snog you, sleep with you even, the woman they’d ultimately choose as their steady girlfriend/wife, would be a lot more sophisticated, more self-assured and perhaps a lot prettier than you.

  Of course Claire had been dumped. And regularly. But the reasons had usually been because she’d absolutely refused to sleep with them. Not because they thought she was unattractive in any way.

  At least Anna couldn’t ring Steve and beg for a second . . . sorry . . . third shot at making their ‘relationship’ work. Not unless she went out to a payphone to do it. Ah well, she wasn’t going to waste any more time thinking about him. She had her possible promotion to think about. That was some compensation. If she got a transfer she wouldn’t have to bump into the likes of Steve, Jake or Elaine for a very long time. It was a very comforting thought.

  The front door bell rang, making her start. Who could it be? Perhaps Grainne or Sandra had locked themselves out. Or Steve. Well, he could bloody stay out! It rang again. A long ring this time.

  ‘Mark, you’re back.’ Anna couldn’t help breaking into a smile.

  ‘London was too busy,’ he grinned. ‘Too many people.’

  ‘Right.’ Anna wasn’t fooled. ‘Whatsername must have kicked you out.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Mark protested. ‘Anyway you’ve got that all wrong as I told you before.’

  ‘Come in,’ Anna widened the door.

  ‘Actually –’ he paused ‘– would you mind coming over to me? My fridge is crammed with food . . . too much for one man to eat alone.’

  ‘Uh . . .’ Anna started.

  ‘Unless you’re doing something with that young lad of yours.’

  ‘No,’ Anna retorted. ‘I’m not doing anything with him . . . tonight.’

  ‘Good. Right. You ready?’

 

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