Cathy Kelly 3-book Bundle (89 page)

‘I’d love that,’ she said, eyes wide like a fawn’s.

There was nothing overtly sexy about Steffi. With her innocent blue eyes and curtain of blonde hair, she was the maiden
waiting for her champion to come, and David fell at her feet. Steffi never demanded anything of him, never.

She simply wanted to be with him. It was heady, exciting and hugely sexually thrilling. He’d found it took so much longer to get aroused these days, and although he’d never said anything about it to Ingrid, it upset him. But with Steffi, he was ready in an instant.

It wasn’t her youth, he told himself, particularly when he had nightmares about Ingrid finding out. It was her gentle compliance. She was naïve and charming, and perfectly willing to phone the flower shop where she worked and tell them she couldn’t come in when David had to go away on business and asked her to accompany him.

When he was with her, he felt the power and energy he’d had when he was a young man. But as soon as he left her, the guilt would set in.

Ingrid would be devastated by his betrayal. His other amours had been short-lived, but this wasn’t. Six months became a year became two years and counting. He knew that no woman would want her husband to have an affair, but he imagined trying to explain this one to Ingrid and knew that, while he’d have had some hope of repairing their marriage after a short, purely sexual fling, his relationship with Steffi would mean the divorce courts. Two years with a very young woman who was the polar opposite of Ingrid was indefensible. It would destroy Ingrid and their marriage. Forever.

Do what makes you happy. Tell the people you love that you love them. Forget about waiting for a rainy day.
Do it now.

Ingrid’s new hairstyle caused ructions in the press.

First, it made headlines:
Short sharp shock for Ireland’s queen of politics.

Next, came the feature pieces where women with long, curling manes of hair were photographed–unflatteringly–beside women with coolly short styles like Ingrid.

Women who mean business,
ran the headline, followed by:
how Ireland’s movers and shakers are turning their backs on girlie curls.

‘You’ve started something with your new haircut,’ said Gloria to Ingrid, as they sat in Ingrid’s office with the papers spread out in front of them.

‘That wasn’t the plan,’ said Ingrid, putting on her glasses to peer more closely at one photo of herself with her new hairstyle interviewing a politician.

Her hair was still blonde, but instead of flowing gently around her shoulders, it was closely cropped to her head, so her bone structure and intelligent eyes were what people noticed, not a
mass of hair. It suited her incredibly well, she had to admit, although it worked better because of the weight she’d lost.

This had all come about after that night with Marcella, Carla and Nikki, where seeing the older, skinny woman with the facelift and the Barbie hair had made her shudder at the thought of ageing badly.

Her hairdresser had refused to do it at first. ‘You’ll sue me,’ he said, clutching his scissors close to his chest.

‘I won’t,’ said Ingrid, folding up the picture of Judi Dench she’d brought in as inspiration. ‘If you don’t do it, I’ll go home and hack it off myself, and then come back for you to fix it.’

‘You’ve lost it totally,’ he groaned. ‘C’mere. Let me at you–but don’t say I didn’t warn you. You could go shorter by degrees, not whack it all off in one go.’

‘I like the idea of whacking it all off in one go,’ she said. ‘Zero tolerance for hair.’

‘If this starts a trend, we’re in trouble,’ he went on gloomily. ‘Just because you have decent bone structure, doesn’t mean everybody else has. The place will be jammed with moonfaced women wanting Ingrid Fitzgerald haircuts and they’ll look like the Teletubbies when they get them.’

Despite herself, Ingrid laughed. ‘I’ve never started a trend in my life,’ she said. ‘And you’re being very cruel to other women. Who cares what they look like with short hair as long as they like it themselves. Life isn’t a catwalk and real women aren’t models.’

‘So says you,’ he replied.

Sure enough, a few days after Ingrid appeared on
Politics Tonight
with her new haircut, the papers were predicting a rush for short, sharp cuts.

‘It’s freeing,’ Ingrid said to Gloria, rubbing her hands through the sleek, spiky hair. ‘No effort at all, just wash, dry for five minutes, rub some wax into the ends, and I’m ready. Should have done it years ago.’

They’d just come out of a meeting about the next day’s
programme. It was going to be an important show because the Minister for Health, currently embroiled in a scandal about cancer facilities, had finally agreed to come on the show.

The mood in the editorial meeting was jubilant, except down Joan’s end of the table when the producer said that Joan would be doing a report on women who’d been misdiagnosed with cancer, while Ingrid would be conducting the studio interview with the minister.

Jeri, the production assistant, poked her head round Ingrid’s office door.

‘Hate to tell you, but Joan is spitting she’s not getting the interview with the minister,’ she warned Ingrid. ‘She’s just marched into Jack’s office.’

Ingrid felt tired in a way she hadn’t all day. It was the sense of Joan’s fury towards her, an entirely wasted emotion, given that Ingrid wasn’t in competition with Joan. If only she would understand that Ingrid worked for her own self-worth and not solely to annoy Joan, then it would be so much easier.

But Joan didn’t get that she and Ingrid could actually support each other. They were the only women in elevated positions in a male-dominated world. Men were the senior players and men played them off against each other. Joan was too busy fighting her perceived corner to understand this.

Six months ago, Ingrid would have let her be, but not any more.

She waited until Joan emerged from the head of current affairs’ office, then intercepted her in the women’s toilets.

‘Clever about the new haircut,’ Joan said sharply as Ingrid walked in.

‘Do you think I did this to be clever?’ said Ingrid. ‘I did it to stop looking like I was trying to be girlish as I got older.’

Joan’s blue eyes, beautifully made up with lashings of mascara, widened at such honesty.

‘You’ve made it clear that we’re never going to be able to work together well,’ Ingrid went on. ‘I must have been in
fantasyland to think otherwise. But we don’t need to be having catfights. That’s what they want, you know, Jack and his pals.’

Joan still looked wary.

‘Why don’t women work well together? Come on, Joan, you’ve a politics degree, you can work it out, can’t you?’ Ingrid asked. ‘OK, I’ll tell you: divide and conquer. They like us to think we’re a threat to one another. Usually, there aren’t enough women in the top levels for us to have worked out a helping strategy. We’re so rare, we tend to view each other as adversaries rather than sisters in arms.’

Ingrid took out her lipstick and slicked some on. With her hair short, she could wear bright red gloss. It looked sharp and sexy; she loved it.

‘How long do you think I’ve got in this job?’ said Ingrid calmly. ‘Ten years? Not a hope, Joan. I’ve three at the most, and then I’m out. You can learn from me in those three years, or you can continue to treat me like the enemy.’

‘I don’t treat you like the enemy,’ said Joan suddenly.

‘No? You certainly seemed to when I came back after my husband died.’

For the first time, the other woman’s brittle exterior seemed to crack. ‘I thought you’d gone for good, I thought I had a shot at being the chief presenter.’

‘Joan, working here is what I know, what I am. I’ve been here for fifteen years,’ Ingrid said. ‘With my husband gone, this was my solace. It might be your solace one day. This job isn’t kind to marriages or relationships, remember that.’

‘I’m sorry about David.’

Ingrid cracked a polite acknowledging smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘I didn’t mean to treat you like the enemy but–’

‘But Jack says that, when I’m gone, you’ll be the number one presenter?’ Ingrid said intuitively. ‘That’s one of Jack’s favourite ploys. Divide and conquer works so well with female employees because we’re all so anxious and insecure.’

Joan was blushing under her discreet coating of Mac foundation.

‘Or else he said to wait until I have a bad day, then strike and get me out? That’s his other favourite plan. Maybe he read it in
The Art of War,
although I doubt it; Sun Tzu was probably smarter than that. But if you conspire to get rid of everyone who might be a threat, then one day, the same thing will be done to you.’

Ingrid was getting angry now. Anger at the world, anger at David and his unknown lover was emerging as anger in general. ‘What exactly did I do to make you think I was your enemy? I helped you in the early days, that’s what I do to all women who work here, and now, I’m simply trying to do my job well. There’s room for us all. Women don’t need to nudge each other off with their stilettos.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Joan said abruptly. ‘You were so kind to me when I started and I feel ashamed now–’

‘I’m glad you remember it but, tell me, have
you
mentored anyone yet?’

Joan looked even more ashamed. She shook her head.

‘There you go. Start paying it forward for other women. We shouldn’t be our own worst enemies in business. Mind you, I clearly didn’t do a very good job or you wouldn’t be working out how to elbow me out of my job. I took my eye off the ball there.’ Ingrid paused. ‘Took my eye off a lot of balls,’ she murmured.

‘I am sorry,’ Joan grabbed Ingrid’s hands. ‘You always seem so poised and in control, it makes me feel inadequate beside you.’

‘That’s you projecting how you feel on to me,’ said Ingrid. ‘Another lesson women need to learn. Most of the time, it’s not about you. For the past few weeks, I’ve been trying to hold myself together, not make you feel bad.’

She ran a hand through her hair.

‘I’d love short hair,’ said Joan ruefully, ‘but if I got it
cut, everyone would say I was only doing it to look like you.’

Ingrid grinned, a genuine grin. ‘Screw them,’ she said. ‘Who cares what everyone says? You only get one chance at life, you may as well do it your way. Do you want the name of my hairdresser?’

Marcella couldn’t concentrate. The office plumbing system was fixed, the noise and the workmen were gone, and the office felt like a morgue. There was no chance of Lorcan dropping in to check something, no need for him to sprint up the back stairs and poke his head into her office to deliver a smile.

She’d felt devastated from love affairs ending before, but nothing like this. What made it worse was that nobody knew. She couldn’t even sob on Ingrid’s shoulder because she hadn’t told Ingrid about the relationship in the first place.

Everything reminded her of him.

A red dress in a shop window made her think of the red dress she’d worn on their first date.

A pick-up truck made her think of his pick-up truck, with its giant tyres and music blasting out from inside.

Her bed looked huge and lonely when she went into her bedroom at night; it was the bed of someone who’d never share with a lover ever again.

She would never feel his arms around her, his lips moving slowly over her body–she’d told him it wouldn’t work, that his mother was right and he was too young for her. Despite his protests, she’d said their relationship had to end. One day, she told him, he’d be grateful.

‘Grateful?’ he’d snapped, and he’d looked so angry she’d been taken aback. ‘Don’t make decisions on my behalf on the grounds that one day I’ll be
grateful!’

They’d met for morning coffee in a café near her home. Once Marcella had decided it had to end, she wanted to do it instantly. Meeting him close to her office would be risky
in case people saw them. She’d known he wouldn’t take it well, but she hadn’t expected him to be so furious. Guys like him must have broken up with women a million times, surely?

‘I’ve never met a woman so obsessed with age. My age, your age, Uncle Tom Cobley’s age. What does it matter?’ he demanded, so loudly that the two people behind the counter making coffee looked around in alarm.

‘It does matter,’ Marcella said, getting quite cross herself now. ‘Your mother read me the riot act about being too old for you–’

‘My mother reads everyone the riot act,’ Lorcan said. ‘She’s been doing it so long, she forgets we’re all grown-ups and can make our own decisions.’

‘But she hates me,’ said Marcella, anger vanishing to be replaced by something close to tears. She hated feeling so disapproved of. And what made it worse was that his mother had hit the nail on the head: Marcella wouldn’t be giving Lorcan adorable babies just like him. Her biological clock had ticked right down to zero. Even if she wanted ten little Lorcans, it would be impossible without the application of science.

‘She’s right, too. I can’t give you babies.’ The old lady at the next table craned her head to listen, but Marcella didn’t care. ‘I wish I could but I can’t. So let’s call it a day, Lorcan. I’d love your babies, but it’s not going to happen and I’ll spend the rest of my life if I stay with you, thinking about that. Eventually, you would too. It’d destroy us. Good bye, it was wonderful, but it’s over.’

Before he could open his mouth to reply, she got up and hurried out, and he let her. She so wanted him to run after her, but when he didn’t, she knew he understood. A man with a big family like that would want children. He was right in one way, the age difference didn’t matter that much in most respects, but when it came to women’s fertility, it did.

That had been a week ago and she was still grieving over him. She got herself a coffee and avoided the biscuits in the office kitchen–incredibly, she was off her food, which was great for her stomach but made her face look haggard–and went into her office with the newspaper. She shut the door–her ‘keep out’ signal–and flicked in a desultory manner through the papers.

Finally, she read her horoscope, which was a sign of total insanity, as she never read horoscopes.

Virgo. A problem shared is a problem halved. You’ve been worrying over something and keeping it from those closest to you. Stop right now. Share it and see what happens.

Marcella picked up the phone. Blast it. If she didn’t tell someone, she’d go insane.

Ingrid sounded remarkably upbeat when she answered her mobile.

‘You’ll never believe it: I had a heart-to-heart with Joan and I think we’ve sorted it out,’ Ingrid whispered. ‘Hold on, I’ll just close my office door. We were in the loo and I came out and said it…’

Marcella listened. Being a friend meant you listened to the other person. Finally, Ingrid finished.

‘Ingrid, I have to tell you this,’ blurted out Marcella. ‘I’ve met someone.’

‘
Now
she gets round to telling me,’ said Ingrid cheerfully, sounding like her old self.

‘You knew?’

‘You sort of gave it away that night we were out with Nikki and Carla, when you looked all moony and involved when Nikki introduced us to that handsome financier guy.’

‘But you never said anything.’

‘I knew you’d tell me when you were ready. Besides, I felt it was my fault in the first place,’ Ingrid admitted. ‘With all I
was going through, it was obvious you felt you couldn’t tell me.’

‘Well, who wants to hear about someone else’s sex life?’ sighed Marcella.

‘Sex life? Spill,’ commanded Ingrid.

Marcella spilled.

‘He sounds wonderful,’ Ingrid said at the end. ‘Why did you end it?’

‘I’ve explained it to you,’ Marcella said wearily. ‘His age, my age…you know.’