Woman to Woman (35 page)

“Rex and I were very worried about him. He’s never missed visiting us for Thanksgiving since we met him in Boston all those years ago. And last year he just called the day before and said he couldn’t come. We

really missed his company. He’s such a fascinating man, but then, what am I telling you that for, Jo. You already know! Anyway,” Suzanne patted Jo’s hand, ‘we’re so glad he’s got over it all, and so glad that he’s got someone as wonderful as you. And I can tell he loves you, just from the way he looks at you.”

“You can?” asked Jo faintly.

“You bet. Just remember to ask us to the wedding!”

It was nearly half four on Wednesday afternoon when Mark and Jo finally left Mademoiselle Inc. The heavy white door, with MI emblazoned on it in gold, slammed behind them as they walked onto 39th Street after two hours of negotiating.

The director of the Mademoiselle chain of shops was eager to work with Style and their in-house designer was even keener, thanks to Jo’s praise for his beautiful designs.

The New York traffic was building up into rush-hour proportions and Jo sighed with exhaustion as she realised they hadn’t a hope in hell of getting a taxi. But she hadn’t reckoned on Mark’s ability to whistle up a cab as well as any New York doorman.

“I think that went pretty well,” commented Mark, slamming the taxi door and dropping his briefcase onto the seat beside him.

“You were brilliant, Jo. You really impressed them and telling Marco that his designs were, what was it, “… a breath of fresh air into the jaded world of fashion”, clinched the deal!”

“I’d have told him he was the new Karl Lagerfeld to get everything signed and get out of there. Thank God it’s all over Jo said fervently.

“All this wheeling and dealing is exhausting. And I don’t think I could have managed another cup of herb tea, no matter how many fashion supplements they were going to advertise in.”

“I thought you liked that stuff Mark said, astonished.

“You certainly drank enough of it.”

Jo looked at him incredulously.

“I was trying to be polite. Have you ever seen me drink anything that smelled like boiled socks before?”

Mark burst out laughing.

“You never cease to amaze me, Ms Ryan.” His eyes gleamed with amusement.

“I’m beginning to wonder what else you’d do to clinch a deal. Marco certainly liked you and I’m sure Tony wouldn’t have turned down an intimate dinner date if you’d asked him nicely.”

It was Jo’s turn to laugh.

“I might stand a chance with Marco, but I think you’d be more Tony’s type.”

“Damn,” said Mark quickly.

“You mean I missed the chance of a date? You could have told me. He was just my type.” He flicked his head in a camp manner and did his best to pout. He never stopped surprising her.

“I’ll tell you what,” she said, ‘make a detour to Bloomingdale’s to drop me off and I’ll ring Tony and tell him you’re willing to meet him but only if he brings you to a gay biker club, all right?”

“Maybe not,” grinned Mark, patting her knee.

“I’ve gone off gay biker clubs since PVC became fashionable. Everyone’s doing it and I prefer leather. Anyway,” he said, leaning forward towards the driver, and adopting his normal voice, “I want to do some shopping myself. Bloomingdale’s,” he told the cab driver.

“I want to buy a present for my sister. It’s her birthday next month and I’d love to get her something really nice. Will you help? I hate shopping,” he admitted.

“Of course. What were you thinking of getting?”

“If I knew that I wouldn’t be asking you,” he pointed out.

Silk scarves were out because Denise already had loads of scarves. That’s what I usually buy her,” admitted Mark sheepishly.

“I never know what she’d like.”

He might not know what Denise would like, but he certainly had very fixed ideas about what she wouldn’t like, thought Jo after half an hour trailing around Bloomie’s, where he vetoed every suggestion she made.

Perfume, jewellery, handbags and a glorious chenille jumper in a mulberry shade had all been rejected and even Jo, steadfast shopper that she was, was getting tired.

“I’ll tell you what, Mark, I want to have a look around myself, so why

don’t you potter around and think about what you want to buy Denise and meet me back here in three quarters of an hour, right?” Before I kill you, she added silently.

Jo spent a blissful half an hour riffling through racks of Donna Karan, Prada and Emporio Armani. She hadn’t enough time to try anything on and, since she didn’t know how strapped she was going to be for money with the baby, she decided to keep her credit card firmly in her handbag. It wasn’t easy. Being a cash less fashion editor in Bloomingdale’s was like being a chocoholic with wired-up jaws in Cadbury’s.

Next time, she promised herself, taking one last look at a beautiful jersey dress that would look perfect on her. She was passing the children’s department when she stopped abruptly.

They probably had the most divine baby clothes in the world:

just a quick look wouldn’t delay her too much.

Everything was so pretty, she thought, stroking the soft fabric of a tiny denim pinafore. There were even socks to match, tiny soft blue ones with miniature denim bows on one side. They’d look so beautiful on the baby, if it was a girl… “I thought it was you.” Mark was beside her, leaning over to see what she’d picked up.

“I came looking for you because I assumed I’d have to drag you out of the premises once you’d got into a clothes-buying frenzy. You buying presents as well?”

The little socks felt so soft, so lovely. For some bizarre reason, Jo suddenly felt sad, felt like sitting down on the floor of the baby department and sobbing for herself and her baby, a baby with no daddy.

“No.” she mumbled, shoving the socks blindly at the rack they’d been on.

“Not presents.”

He caught up with her by the perfume counters. One large hand on her arm stopped her from rushing out the door.

“What’s wrong, Jo? Did I say something wrong?”

“It’s not you,” she sobbed.

“It’s me.”

“Do you want to try some Poeme?” interrupted a heavily made-up saleslady armed with a huge yellow bottle of perfume and a fixed smile.

“No thanks said Mark, putting an arm around Jo.

“Not you, sir. The lady.”

“No.” he snarled.

“Come on Jo, let’s go.”

“I’m sorry,” Jo sniffled.

“I’m so sorry. It’s just the baby, the baby’s making me all mixed up and sad.”

“Baby. The baby?” repeated Mark in amazement.

“I’m having a baby and Richard has left me she mumbled.

Then she leaned against his jacket and cried as if her heart would

break.

Aisling zipped up her skirt and turned to look at herself in the mirror. Three months ago, she wouldn’t have been able to get the grey herringbone skirt over her hips. Now she could slide into it with ease. Two months of Callanetics, lots of brisk walks and no chocolate digestives had worn her once-plump thighs and hips down a dress size.

She couldn’t help feeling smug. When Michael came to pick up the boys tomorrow, she’d go outside and talk to him something she’d avoided doing for ages just to show him how well she looked. Nowadays when he picked up the boys at lunchtime on Saturdays, they ran out the front door with their overnight bags and Aisling never ventured out to say hello. When he brought them home on Sunday evenings before seven, she sat in the sitting room keeping an eye out for his car in order to have the front door open for the twins.

She hadn’t actually seen Michael for at least six weeks.

They’d talked on the phone of course, cool conversations with lots of silences and plenty of ‘anyways’.

Two weeks ago he’d rung on a Thursday night to say he’d have to change his day to see the boys, thus ruining Aisling’s plans to help Jo house-hunt.

“I can’t pick up Phillip and Paul on Saturday because I’m going to London,” he announced.

“I’ll pick them up on Sunday morning instead and bring them out to lunch.”

Aisling was furious, both at the cool way he’d told her the news and the fact that he’d given her only one day’s notice of his change of plan. How dare he assume she wouldn’t have any plans of her own!

Thank you so much,” she hissed, ‘for giving me plenty of notice. Do you have any idea of how this is going to affect the twins, do you,

Michael? No, I suppose you don’t. It’s bad enough that you’ve left us,” she said, determined to put the boot in, ‘but letting them down like this is appalling. How do you expect two ten-year-olds to understand that you can’t see them as usual? They’ll think you’ve dumped them too.”

Aisling knew she was being vicious, full of the bitterness she thought she’d managed to conceal for so long. But she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to hurt Michael and she’d used the twins to do it. In reality, they appeared to be coping with the breakup quite well, something which amazed her.

They seemed confident of Michael’s love and loved visiting him at the weekends, excited at the idea of calling another place home. And since she’d started to get on with her life and no longer broke down crying at the drop of a hat, the happier atmosphere had cheered them all up.

“I’m sorry, Aisling,” Michael said, his voice suddenly hollow and exhausted.

“I’ve only just found out I have to go away.

Letting the boys down is the last thing I want to do.”

Hearing the desolation in his voice, she immediately regretted the way she’d tried to hurt him. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t bring Phillip and Paul out with her and Jo. They’d love the chance to spend time with their auntie Jo, who always brought sweets, told them jokes and let them fiddle around with the windscreen wipers in the front seat of the car the way their mother wouldn’t.

Anyway, Aisling missed them so much when they were gone at the weekend that she knew it would be lovely to have them with her on Saturday for a change. Guilt at her bitchiness overwhelmed her. She’d been a nasty, manipulative bitch on the phone, everything she hated in other people and Michael hadn’t deserved it.

He hadn’t phoned her since then. At least he’d had two weeks to forget what she’d said, she reflected. She wasn’t proud of shrieking that he’d left her feeling less than useless.

Damn him, she’d never meant to let herself down so much.

Now she had the chance to show him how much she’d changed, what she’d achieved. He’d get a bit of a shock to see that his wife wasn’t the same old drudge.

The sight, of Aisling Moran, career woman, would certainly take him by surprise. Not that she was exactly that a career woman, she thought wryly.

Keeping her nose to the grindstone in the employ of Richardson, Reid and Finucane did not exactly qualify her for any Businesswoman of the Year awards. Nor did ignoring barbed and often salacious comments from Leo Murphy, in between doing his typing and answering the phone. But she wasn’t about to tell Michael that. No way.

Let him admire her new figure, her increased selfconfidence and her air of calm. Aisling sighed at herself in the mirror. Who was she kidding? She certainly felt more confident about lots of things, but unfortunately, her confidence wavered when she needed it most. With Leo. Losing nearly three-quarters of a stone had given her more energy and a smidgen of her old self-assurance.

Dealing with all manner of problems with clients and other lawyers’ secretaries had given her a sense of job satisfaction that cleaning the oven never had.

But everything fell to pieces when it came to Leo. Aisling loved the days he was out of the office. She typed up letters, filed documents, made appointments and dealt with clients effortlessly.

She was good at the job, she realised happily, great at organising things and coolly competent when it came to the finer details of office work.

Then she’d hear him bounding up the stairs to her tiny office and she’d feel a queasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“How’s my lovely Mrs. Moran today?” he said sometimes, when he was in a good mood.

“Gimme my appointment book,” he’d snarl when he wasn’t.

If a woman had behaved the way Leo Murphy did, with mood swings verging on the psychiatric, she’d have been called a premenstrual nuisance or a menopausal old cow.

Leo was just moody, Caroline said the day Aisling had ventured to ask if he’d always been so ‘difficult’.

Moody. He should have been locked up, she decided. In fact, he was so nasty when he was in his bad moods, that she had almost preferred him when he was playful, patting her on the shoulder in an overfamiliar way or calling her “Honey’ or “Sweetheart.” Almost.

Wednesday had been the last straw. He’d come back from what was obviously a boozy lunch not for the first time in rare good humour.

“How are you, Aisling?” he said sauntering into her office.

He placed both hands on her desk and leaned over, as though trying to see what was on her computer screen. He was too close for comfort. The smell of brandy on his breath was enough to make Aisling recoil.

“Mr. Reid was looking for you,” she stuttered, the hairs standing up on her arms.

“He can wait,” Leo said in the precise tones of someone who was drunk but determined not to show it.

“So.” he clumsily-pushed her wire in-tray to one side and sat down on the edge of her desk, less than two feet away from her. Aisling slid her chair back furtively, but she was jammed up against the window.

“So,” he repeated, ‘how’s your husband, Aisling? Still gone?”

Had anyone else said something so blatantly rude to her, Aisling would have been furious, maybe even walked out of the room and slammed the door. But Leo Murphy wasn’t anyone. He was her boss.

The phone on her desk leaped to life, its shrill ring breaking Leo’s spell. Aisling grabbed it.

“Leo Murphy’s office,” she said quickly, wondering how she could still speak with her mouth so dry.

“Of course, Caroline.

He’s here now. I’ll tell him Mr. Reid’s waiting for him.”

She didn’t have to say another word. Leo left as quickly as he’d come, leaving her wondering whether she’d just imagined the whole scary scene.