A Very Accidental Love Story (34 page)

But something had shifted lately and now Seth, with his fondness for littering conversation with foreign phrases wrongly calculated to impress women, found himself thinking
tout ça change
. At the directors’ weekend she’d somehow morphed from the Ice Maiden into Miss Popularity. That was blatantly obvious to anyone with an eye in their head. Everyone had seen it, everyone from the top down had commented on it within his hearing at one time or another.

It had been quite an extraordinary phenomenon to witness first hand; editors like Robbie Turner, who’d regularly said he’d rather pan fry his own liver than spend more than two minutes in Eloise’s company socially, now were literally fighting to get a seat next to her, laughing with her, joshing with her, treating her, well, like an old buddy. Had Seth not witnessed it for himself first hand, he’d never have thought it possible.

This astonishing, about-turn change in Madam Elliot had all begun several weeks back, when she kept mysteriously disappearing from the office, and no one could figure out why. Then the unthinkable began to happen, she started treating those around her like actual human beings for a change and not desk-chained automatons like she was herself. Or rather, like she
used
to be. Letting people slip off for family events, giving them early holidays on full pay, unexpectedly and thoughtfully bringing everyone Starbucks coffees to their editorial meetings, that kind of thing.

She’s met someone, the rumour mill chanted. And he was softening her, slowly but most definitely, to the extent that the Queen Bee now finally seemed to be putting her own personal life ahead of her career. Which of course was around the same time that Seth finally made sure he got to meet this mysterious guy and made bloody certain that he was included in the directors’ weekend. So he could grill him up close and personal.

Best decision he’d made in a long time, as it had turned out. Because the past weekend really was one for the annals; Sir Gavin’s wife drunkenly making a show of herself at their table, then bringing up the unmentionable subject that Eloise had her child by artificial insemination … All
fabulous
stuff. You couldn’t buy it. Seth had almost wished he’d had a video camera to tape the look on her horrified face. Clearly hadn’t come clean to her boyfriend about that particular gem; that was all too obvious.

Not that there was anything incriminating about that, regrettably far from it. But you still couldn’t get away from one thing; there was just something about that Jake guy, something Seth couldn’t quite put his finger on. At least, not yet.

Oh make no mistake, he’d interrogated him every chance he got at the pre-dinner drinks, but came up against a virtual blank wall. Fired every question under the sun at him about his background and still came away with next to nothing. Still though, no harm in digging a little deeper, was there? Because Seth too had started out his career as an investigative journalist and knew that no one, absolutely no on, just landed on the scene without some kind of a history behind them.

But with this guy?
Nada
, not a thing. Went to a school that Seth had never heard of, dodged a lot of his questions, knew absolutely no one that Seth knew, didn’t even work with anyone he could use to get the low-down on him. Which was unusual to say the least, particularly in a glorified village like Dublin, where everyone not only knew everyone else, but had every last scrap of inside information on them, their next-door neighbour and their next-door neighbour’s cat into the bargain.

Then there was that accent. It wasn’t one he could place and Seth was usually good at automatically divining where you stood on the social pecking order by the way you spoke. It was a worked-on accent though, one that had been sanded down and polished, that was blatantly clear.

If there was one thing Seth was certain of in his bones, it was this. There was far more to Jake Keane than met the eye. Otherwise why would he have been at such pains not to chat a bit about his background, where he’d come from, who his family were, all the normal stuff that people tended to do socially? Made no sense.

With that barracuda instinct that he was fast becoming famous for, Seth had even taken the precaution of having a word with Sir Gavin over a round of golf, the morning after that excruciating dinner at Davenport Hall. Idly let it slip that Eloise Elliot’s date seemed like a man with, let’s just say, friends in low places. Sir Gavin had shrugged indifferently and kept on striding towards the fairways, but Seth’s curiousity was well and truly piqued now. He was like a dog with a bone, determined to get the bottom of – what exactly?

He wasn’t quite sure yet, but one thing was for definite. The editor of a paper of record like the
Post
was a public figure, and as such, like Caesar’s wife, his or her personal life was expected to be above reproach. So on the off-chance that there was something shady about Eloise’s new man, surely it was in the board’s interest to be made aware of it? Course it was. Certainly if Seth had anything to do with it. And if, let’s just say, any unsavoury associations should reflect badly on Eloise, then that was hardly his fault, now was it?

Which was why he now found himself heading into Finnegans bar on Poolbeg St., just before eleven p.m. on one of those summer nights when it’s pitch dark, lashing rain and feels more like October. A real hardcore journos’ pub this, one where pub closing hours were regularly ignored and old men spat on the floor and no one batted an eyelid.

Bloody typical of Jim Kelly to pick some dive like this for their rendezvous, Seth thought disdainfully, seeking him out, then immediately spotting him nursing a pint of Guinness in a corner snug. But then Jim Kelly was an old-school hack, someone everyone at the
Post
automatically turned to if they needed information, let’s just say, of a more
sensitive
nature.

‘There you are. Late,’ growled Jim, seeing Seth sit gingerly down on the wooden bar stool opposite him, fingers twitching to whip out his hanky and give the seat a good dusting down first, before perching uncomfortably on the edge of it. Looking for all the world like the head butler at
Downton Abbey
conducting an interview with a new chimney sweep.

Seth made no apology for his tardiness, just offered Jim another drink, was relieved when he said no and came straight to the point. The sooner he got out of this filthy kip the better.

‘Need a favour,’ he told Jim, who nodded.

‘Why else would you have called me?’

‘Can you run a check on Eloise Elliot’s new boyfriend? Guy by the name of–’

‘Let me hazard a wild guess,’ said Jim, sitting right back in his chair, arms folded, flashing his shark-like grin, teeth long-since yellowed from the fags.

‘A certain Jake Keane. Would that be right?’

Seth nodded.

‘How did you know?’ he asked, a bit puzzled at how Jim had second-guessed him so fast.

‘Make it my business to know a lot of things,’ Jim answered vaguely.

‘So what can you tell me?’

‘If it’s deep background you’re looking for on that guy,’ said Jim, knocking back the dregs of a Powers whiskey that had been sitting in front of him, ‘I think I can save us both a considerable amount of time and trouble. Be warned, this information will cost you though.’

Half an hour later Seth was on the pavement again, relieved to be out of that stinking hellhole and feeling more exhilarated than he’d done in months.

Because right now he felt like a footballer with just one, precious shot to an open goal.

Eloise Elliot’s whole career was sitting precariously on a time bomb. And now he knew precisely how to detonate it.

Same crapology, different day, Eloise thought distractedly as she shuffled her way through everyone else and into the
Post’s
conference room, all set for the first news briefing of the day.

Ahh; crapology. Yet another one of Jake’s, mash-up contributions to the English language.

Jake. Funny how, even at the most unexpected times, he still had the power to inveigle his way into her subconscious. And try as she might to banish him from her mind, somehow he kept intruding.

‘Not that I’ve time to listen to the answer,’ Ruth O’ Connell said to her on the way in, ‘but are you OK?’

‘Ehh … yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’

Eloise answered, puzzled at her even asking the question in the first place. Ruth never inquired after anyone, at any time, ever. As far as she was concerned, once you were alive, showing a resting pulse rate and continuing to turn up for work, you were assumed to be perfectly fine, unless subsequently stretchered off by a team of paramedics with paddles affixed to your heart, end of story.

In other words, just like Eloise herself used to carry on, not all that long ago.

‘Oh, nothing,’ Ruth backpedalled, instantly realising she’d said The Wrong Thing.

‘I suppose I’m … just a bit tired, you know yourself,’ Eloise tried her best to smile weakly back at her, as the momentary flush of irritation passed. Hardly Ruth’s fault that she’d picked up on the low-level depression that had been hanging like a fog over her ever since … Well, ever since.

And in all this time, she thought, drifting back up into her cloud of anxiety, not so much as a single word from Jake; nothing. Like he’d just completely vanished right back to where he came from; thin air. He’d moved lock, stock and barrel out of Helen’s flat and wasn’t returning phone calls, not to mention any of the countless messages she’d left for him at the language school. During her darker moments in the rare bit of time that Eloise got to herself, she oscillated between bouts of fist-rattling, white-hot anger, then lately – even more worryingly – a deep unease about what in the name of God had actually happened to him.

Frankly, it was getting harder by the day to tell which was worse.

Yes, she’d messed up royally, yes what she did was wrong on so many levels, she knew that and God knows, she’d beaten herself up about it enough times. But still, she could be so annoyed at him, livid at how he could just stalk off Homer Simpsonlike in high dudgeon without even giving her the courtesy of a second chance. Hadn’t he been given just that himself? But no, instead of putting what she’d done behind them and starting over, as far as she was concerned, he was sulking, letting her sweat while he hid out God alone knew where. Punishing her, torturing her, acting like a complete child.

This white-fury, of course, would quickly boomerang into annoyance directed squarely back at herself. For Christ’s sake, she’d think in her stronger moments, wasn’t dealing with almighty crap like this the very reason why she electively didn’t ever do relationships? Or even friendships? Because this was what inevitably happened; you invested so much time and all of your considerable energies in one other person, only to have the door firmly slammed right in your face. So why did she even bother in the first place?

Then there was Lily, pretty much the only person in her life that could put a smile on her face these days. Every night when she rushed home to her, Eloise would play with her, sing to her, bathe her and put her to bed while the same thought ran round her head. The one good thing to come out of this whole mess was that she’d never introduced him to Lily. Because if he’d met her and then chose to bugger off on her, Eloise swore she’d have strangled him with her bare hands, gladly done time for it, and very likely ended up behind bars in Wheatfield Prison herself.

At least Lily was okay and oblivious to the backstage drama that had gone on. And now these mornings when she’d snuggle into her bed at the crack of dawn and ask, ‘Mama? Have you found my daddy yet?’ Eloise would just pull her tightly to her and gloss over the subject, telling her how loved she was, that she was the best little girl in the whole world and how lucky they both were to have Auntie Helen living with them. And Lily would smile her gap-toothed little smile at that and let it go.

Another thing though; now that Jake was officially gone from her life, why couldn’t she seem to just do what she always did? Bury herself in work and get on with her career? The one thing that had never in her whole life let her down before?

Because somehow she just wasn’t able to focus anymore. Found herself barely able to concentrate these days; she whose proudest boast once was that she could multitask for Ireland, keeping tabs on about ten different conversations all at once and still stay fully abreast of all of them. Normally, even on the bad days, and there were certainly plenty enough of them, work filled her, gave her a buzz that got her through the interminable hours until she could get home to Lily.

She thought habit and routine would save her, but for some reason, not now. All she knew for certain was that when you stripped away every fluctuating emotion she was feeling, here’s what she was left with. Wherever Jake was, whatever he was doing, whoever he was with now … She just missed her friend. Missed him far more than she’d ever have thought possible. And night-times were worst. Because nights were when they used to talk. Not about anything life-alteringly huge; they wouldn’t take the world apart then put it back together again; they’d just have long, meandering chats to each other about their respective days and if she ever dared stray into moaning or stressing territory, he’d gently bring her round, tease her out of it, make her laugh, make her feel like she wasn’t battling the world alone all the time.

All over now, she sighed restlessly to herself. It was over and she’d never see him again. Her mind had already accepted this.

She just wished someone would explain it to her heart.

‘Course, know what you need to cheer you up a wee bit?’ Ruth playfully nudged her, as they took their seats round the already packed conference room, everyone laden down with briefcases, notebooks, iPhones, iPads, Starbucks takeouts, the whole works. All ready to hit the ground running.

‘What’s that?’

‘A night of passion with that ride of a lover boy of yours. That’d sure as hell put the colour back in your cheeks, lassie.’

Half an hour later, and the rough cut of tomorrow’s front page was finally beginning to take shape. The lead story, after much aggressive canvassing from Robbie, was the Republican primary in Washington, followed up by yet another interest rate rise pitched by finance editor Jack Dundon, the only calm, measured voice in a roomful of journos all yelling over each other like kids in a disorderly classroom, each desperately wanting to get their stories maximum prominence.