by Cathy Kelly
Emma giggled. ‘I have baby fantasies,’ she admitted. ‘I’m in the car and I imagine what it must be like to be driving around with the baby in the back, talking to her and telling her what we’re going to do. You know, “Mummy’s bringing you to the shops to buy you some lovely new clothes and then we’re going to the park for a big walk to look at the ducks.”‘ She’d never told anyone that before. It was too private.
Leonie patted her arm. ‘You can tell us anything, Em,’ she said simply, as if she’d known what Emma was thinking. ‘That’s what friends are for. Maybe because we’re new friends and don’t have all sorts of histories with each other, we can accept each other for what we really are.’
Emma nodded. ‘I know. It’s great, isn’t it?’
The hour stretched to an hour and a half. More coffee was needed and Emma insisted she make it. ‘If we’re going to be proper friends, then you can’t be waiting on us like a couple of guests,’ she told Hannah. ‘My God,’ she said moments later. ‘Your kitchen is spotless. Are you sure you aren’t related to my mother? She’d adore you.’
Hannah stuck on a Harry Connick Jnr CD and they all listened to his mellow voice as they went through the rest of the croissants Leonie had brought.
‘He’s a fine thing, Harry,’ Emma said as Harry sang ‘It Had To Be You’ in his own special way.
‘Yeah, but his name ruins it,’ laughed Hannah. ‘Anyway, I’ve gone off dark men. My Harry was dark-haired, so I think I’ll go for blonds from now on.’
‘Ooh, like who?’ asked Leonie. ‘Describe him to us, your fantasy man.’
Sitting on an armchair, Hannah hugged her knees to her chest and contemplated him: ‘Tall, because I like wearing high heels and I hate men who are smaller than me. Muscular, definitely, and with blue eyes, like yours, Leonie; piercing blue to gaze into my soul. Strong bones and wonderful hands for touching me all over. And golden, honeyed skin and hair to match.’
‘That’s Robert Redford you’re talking about,’ Leonie warned, ‘and he’s mine. If he turns up on your doorstep, you are not to lay a hand on him. Or our friendship will be over.’
‘You have to think of your own fantasy man,’ objected Hannah. ‘You can’t just duplicate mine.’
‘OK, OK.’ Leonie loved this game. She played it all the time herself, picturing the man who’d rescue her from singledom. ‘Sorry, Hannah, I’m not copying you, but he has to be tall and strong, really. Otherwise he’ll never be able to carry me over the threshold without rupturing some vital bit. And,’ she giggled, ‘he’ll need all his vital bits in perfect working order. Let’s see…He’s got to be over forty and I think I fancy dark men, definitely, but he can have greying temples. That’s very sexy, distinguished. You can see yourself running your fingers through the grey bits…’
‘You can’t have sex with him until you’ve finished describing him,’ teased Hannah.
‘Dark eyes and a Kirk Douglas chin.’
‘What’s that?’ Emma asked, puzzled.
‘With a dent in it,’ Leonie answered. ‘I used to watch all those old movies when I was a kid and I fancied Kirk something rotten. There was one pirate movie he was in and I dreamed about being the girl in it for months. Oh yes, he has to be filthy rich and love children, animals and women who never stick to their diet. Your turn, Em.’
Emma smiled shyly. ‘I know you’ll think I’m daft, but Pete is my fantasy man. He’s not terribly tall and he’s not muscular, although he’s fit. He’s going bald but I adore him. He’s it’.
Hannah and Leonie smiled at her affectionately. ‘That’s wonderful,’ Hannah said.
‘True love,’ Leonie added. ‘You are lucky, you know.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hannah had been having a wonderful day until she met the postman when she was on her way back to her front door that evening. He didn’t say anything rude or jokingly ask her if she’d joined a convent in her stark grey jacket, long matching skirt, and white shirt, which he’d said one day he met her as she was coming back from a job interview. No, he simply shoved a bunch of letters into the letterbox of the open front door, and the rest of the evening was kaput. Hannah bent to pick them up and realized that two were for her, one in Harry’s writing.
His familiar sloping scrawl was instantly recognizable. He never could do joined up writing, they used to joke. Well ha, bloody, ha! she snarled now. It wasn’t cute or even amusing. It was plain stupid. Imagine a thirty-six-year-old man who couldn’t write properly. She dumped the rest of the letters on the hall table for the other residents and rushed in, shaking her hair to get rid of the light drizzle that had appeared from nowhere. Up till then, it had been a great day.
Her first day working in Dwyer, Dwyer & James estate agent’s and she’d arrived early. Parking the car in a space opposite the branch, she sat there for a few moments and began to breathe deeply. She filled her lungs with air, held it and then exhaled slowly. It was a wonderful way of preparing yourself for the day, she found. Somebody tapped on her window and Hannah leapt in her seat. The window was misted up so she instinctively rubbed it to see who was looking in. A strange woman was smiling in at her. Harmless looking, Hannah felt, noticing the good raincoat, pleasant middle-aged face and pearl necklace above a pink pussy-cat bow blouse, but still strange. She rolled down the window.
‘Yes?’
‘You must be Hannah. I’m Gillian from Dwyer, Dwyer & James. I spotted you from the newsagent’s and thought you were wondering if you should park there or not. But you can.’
‘That’s kind of you,’ Hannah answered politely, getting out of the car and thinking that not a lot must happen in Dun Laoghaire if people spent their time peering out of the newsagent’s window looking out for the new employees.
‘You looked lost in thought…’ said the woman helpfully.
‘Just wondering where to park,’ Hannah lied blithely. She wasn’t about to tell this person that she never lost a moment’s sleep about parking and was sitting there because she was nervous about this new job and needed time to put on her cool, calm façade. Letting people know about your personal life was only asking for trouble, she’d decided. How could she operate as the cool and collected Ms Campbell if the staff knew how she had to calm herself down with yoga breathing? She couldn’t, that was the simple answer.
Two hours later, Hannah knew that Gillian had been on reception for years and worked part-time for the senior Mr Dwyer, a kindly faced man who could be seen through his glass-fronted office reading a huge batch of morning papers and getting Gillian to say he wasn’t in to phone callers.
‘The reception is so busy that I’d prefer to do just one job, looking after Mr Dwyer,’ Gillian whispered, as if Mr Dwyer required a lot of looking after.
Hannah also knew that the ladies’ toilet had an extractor fan problem (recounted in a whisper by Gillian), that the young Steve Shaw would try and chat her up as soon as he saw her even though he was only back from his honeymoon, and that Donna Nelson, the firm’s newest senior agent, was a single mother, ‘although she seems like a nice enough girl,’ Gillian sniffed, as if single motherdom and niceness were mutually exclusive. Hannah said nothing.
Gillian herself had back problems: ‘My chiropractor says I shouldn’t work, but what would I do with myself at home?’ she tittered. Hannah forbore to suggest, ‘Contribute to a gossip column?’ She was married to Leonard, had one son, a deeply unsuitable daughter-in-law, and a budgie named Clementine, who was a boy.
Hannah, who was supposed to be learning the intricacies of the firm’s reception with Gillian as her guide, would have preferred to hear more about dealing with clients and which agents dealt with which areas, and less about how clever Clementine was and what he could do with his mirror. It was soon clear that Gillian, having given so much of herself, was now looking for payback from Hannah in the form of her life story.
Hannah hadn’t divulged one bit of personal information all morning, despite Gillian’s avalanche of intimate chat. Neither ha
d Hannah mentioned that her job was actually going to be that of office manager but that she’d been asked to start on reception as a way of learning more about the firm. One of her first jobs as office manager would be to train the new receptionist starting the following week. Judging by how Gillian appeared to enjoy her lofty position as Mr Dwyer’s assistant, she wouldn’t be pleased to find Hannah was actually her senior in the company structure. She’d find out soon enough.
‘Are you married?’ Gillian asked, pale eyes twinkling in her rosy face, discreet pearl earrings catching the light. She was a monster, Hannah decided. A monster who traded in stories of human misery and who needed Hannah’s story to add to her collection of scalps.
‘Or engaged…?’
Hannah hadn’t grown up in a remote western town where disapproving gossip was the lifeblood of half the residents for nothing.
‘Neither,’ she said bluntly. Then she gazed coolly at Gillian, holding the other woman’s eyes for at least thirty seconds until Gillian looked away uncomfortably.
She’d got the message, Hannah decided.
‘I’ll make us some tea,’ Hannah said warmly. It was vital not to upset Gillian, after all. Just to let her see that Hannah would not be revealing any delicate personal details for the office bulletin board.
It was nearly lunchtime before David James, who had interviewed Hannah in the firm’s city-centre office for the job, arrived. ‘He’s been busy with the Dawson Street office but he still drops in here from time to time,’ Gillian revealed, searching for her frosted pink lipstick when Mr James’s Jag pulled up outside the door.
He doesn’t drop in often enough, Hannah felt, looking around the rather run-down premises which was a total contrast to the stylish Dawson Street branch. There, the minimalist look ruled with architect-designed furniture, modern prints on the walls and an air of discreet wealth simmered gently in the background.
The Dun Laoghaire branch of Dwyer, Dwyer & James looked like somebody’s idea of an elegant office circa 1970. The walls were coffee-coloured, the seats for clients were the sort of low squashy things fashionable when Charlie’s Angels were famous the first time, and big brown felt screens divided up the private bits of the office from the public bits. The address was prestigious but the office was a shambles.
In between Gillian’s monologues, Hannah had been wondering whether she’d made a huge and hideous mistake in giving up her nice job for this place. Dwyer, Dwyer & James were a big, powerful firm and she’d felt it was a step upwards to work for them as office manager. But this branch was like the office that time forgot.
David James, tall, strongly built and with the sort of commanding presence that reduced the place to silence, walked in, shook hands with Hannah, said he hoped she was settling in and asked to see her in the back office. He threw a raincoat on to the back of a chair and pulled off his suit jacket to reveal muscular shoulders straining under a French blue shirt. He was quite handsome really, she realized. She hadn’t noticed it at her interview; she’d been too nervous. But there was something attractive about that broad, strong-boned face and the sleek salt-and-pepper hair. He was probably in his early forties, although the lines around his narrow eyes made him appear slightly older. Immaculate in his expensive clothes, he somehow looked as if he’d be just as at home wielding an axe to chop wood in the wilderness as wielding a Mont Blanc pen in a swish office. He certainly had the colour of someone who liked outdoor pursuits. Not a man to mess with.
‘Have you spoken to my partner, Andrew Dwyer, yet?’ he asked, settling himself into a big chair, not looking at her as his eyes raked over the papers on the desk that required his attention.
‘No. Gillian has been filling me in,’ Hannah said.
A flash of brief understanding passed between them, David’s dark eyes glinting.
‘Ah, Gillian, yes,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not really suitable for Gillian to be doing two jobs. That’s why I’ve hired you. I’m sure you’re wondering what you’ve done, coming from the Triumph Hotel to this place.’
That’s exactly what Hannah had been thinking but she was too clever to show it. She kept her face carefully blank.
‘This was our first premises and it’s ten years since I left,’ he said.
Hannah was surprised. Listening to Gillian, you’d have thought Mr James had been gone from Dun Laoghaire for a mere six months.
‘My nephew Michael set up the Howth office eight years ago and he was due to come back here to take over but personal reasons prevented him doing it. I didn’t have the time to sort this place out. Things have gone downhill here recently since the other Mr Dwyer died. There’ll be a lot of changes and I thought we needed a good manager for the place. I need someone who can get on with the existing staff and be able to work with any new ones. That’s why I hired you. I know you’re a hard worker and I like your style, Hannah.
‘We never had an office manager before. Gillian ran the office when it was a small concern, but we’ve barely been ticking over for a long time. We need a proper office manager, someone who can keep us running smoothly, getting auction brochures printed, etc. From the point of view of security, we need someone who is always aware of where the agents are. When you have people on their own showing houses, you have to be security conscious. I want the female agents to be contacted every hour to make sure they’re safe. I’m very confident that you can do it.’
‘Thanks,’ she said briskly.
‘Now, if Donna Nelson’s back, perhaps you could send her in. I need to have a talk with her.’
Hannah was glad she was working directly with David James. Direct and blunt, he clearly didn’t waste any time on chatting. He was just the sort of person Hannah enjoyed working for. With someone like him, there’d be no need for extraneous conversations about the state of the weather or how strong the office coffee was.
Gillian was dying to know how she’d got on.
‘Isn’t Mr James a pet,’ she sighed. ‘His marriage broke up and he’s never really got over it. I mean, he went out with a few women, but nothing worked out. I think he’s lonely, don’t you sense it too?’
What Hannah sensed was that Gillian would have given poor hubbie Leonard and the talented Clementine the push if she could have comforted Mr James in a very unplatonic way.
By close of business, she’d met all the firm’s agents and had liked Donna Nelson best of all. A rather chic woman with a dark bob, navy suit and an efficient air, she was obviously very wary of Gillian and had greeted Hannah with a guarded smile that said, She’s been telling you all about me, hasn’t she?
Hannah responded with her warmest smile and said pleasantly: ‘Perhaps we could have a chat during the week and you can tell me how you’d like your calls handled.’
‘That would be great,’ Donna said, looking pleased. Probably sick and tired of Gillian’s sharp manner with clients, she was relieved to find someone who knew how to answer a phone without cutting the nose off someone.
Business didn’t appear to be brisk, but Gillian’s put-on phone voice, as frosty as her lipstick, wouldn’t have enticed cold callers to put their homes for sale through Dwyers.
One caller looking for Donna received a particularly sharp remark: ‘If she has time, she’ll get back to you.’
‘Personal call,’ Gillian said disapprovingly, hanging up.
Hannah said nothing again but vowed that when she had sole charge of the office, things would be vastly different. No receptionist she’d train would ever be so rude on the phone.
David James had chatted to her briefly before he left the office that afternoon, balancing his big frame awkwardly on the edge of her desk.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked.
Beside her, Hannah could feel Gillian sitting up straight in her office chair, hoping to be noticed.
‘Fine. I think I’ll have the hang of it in a few days, although it’s easy enough to lose calls on this switchboard. The one in the Triumph was more modern and more efficient,’ sh
e said frankly.
This time, she could sense Gillian bridling with shock that a new employee had dared say such a thing to the boss, but David James merely nodded.
‘We’ll talk about it,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’
‘You’re the forward madam, I’ll say that for you,’ sniffed Gillian when he was gone.
‘You said exactly the same thing about the switchboard earlier,’ Hannah reminded her gently. ‘I was merely telling him.’
‘Mr James doesn’t want to be bothered with things like that,’ hissed Gillian.
Hannah said nothing.
She’d felt pleased as she drove home that evening, pleased that she had made the right choice in moving jobs and confident that she’d do well there. Bloody Harry and his ill-timed letter had ruined that sense of pleasure.
She went into her flat, threw her coat on the hanger and opened the letter.
Dear Hannah,
How’s it going, babe? Hope you’ve taken over the entire hotel business in Dublin by now. Knowing you, you have.
I’m still trekking around South America. Just spent a few weeks in BA (that’s Buenos Aires to you, babes).
‘Babes!’ she snarled, grinding her teeth fiercely. How bloody dare he call her ‘babes’?
I’ve been travelling with some guys and we’re planning another month here before we go to Chile…
She read lines and lines of chatter about odd-jobbing as a tourist guide and how he’d got a few shifts in an English-language newspaper the previous month. It was all surface stuff; nothing personal, no hint as to why he was writing to her for the first time in a year. It wasn’t as if she’d wanted a letter. Not now, anyway. In the first month after he’d left, she’d have killed someone for any news of Harry. Just a postcard or a phone call to say he missed her and wished he hadn’t left. If he’d phoned to beg her to visit him, she’d have downed tools and hopped on the first plane to Rio de Janeiro. It was immaterial that she’d thrown him out of the flat when he first announced that he was leaving her to travel abroad, immaterial that she’d roared at him for being a spineless coward who was terrified of commitment and that she never wanted to see or hear from him again. Ever. Because she missed him so much.