Happy Ever After (3 page)

It would be very satisfying indeed to go home and tell Aimee he had cut a lucrative new deal for his company. It would be good for his wife to know he was still a player and that she wasn’t the only one in town making a success of her career. He sat back in his chair, good humour dissipating as he thought of his wife and the current state of antipathy between them. Since their heated exchange at Debbie’s wedding over two weeks ago, the atmosphere between them was still decidedly frosty. This was the worst low in all their years together. Yes, there’d been troughs before, but they’d always been anxious to sort things and get back on an even keel, but this estrangement was different: harsh, biting words had been hurled which couldn’t be taken back, and the shards of bitterness were still embedded deep.

He wasn’t having much luck with his current and ex-spouses, he reflected gloomily. Connie, his ex-wife, was making it decidedly clear she wasn’t interested in progressing their relationship, despite their becoming close again in the run-up to the wedding. More than close, he thought wryly, remembering the ardour she’d shown when they’d had a hot and heavy, unexpectedly lusty encounter in the lead-up to their daughter’s big day.

He’d re-imagined it often, and it still made him horny. He wanted more. He certainly wasn’t getting hot rides from his wife; all he was getting from Aimee was the cold shoulder. Even before the row at the wedding she’d gone off sex. She was too tired when she got home from work. And she was bringing much more work home with her. His wife’s career trajectory was having a major impact on their marriage, and she couldn’t even see it, he thought bitterly.

It was because of that he hadn’t thought twice about sleeping with his ex-wife. He couldn’t understand why Connie was so reluctant to continue their delightful dalliance. She’d enjoyed it as much as he had, and he was fairly sure she’d been celibate for much of the time since their divorce. She was a sensual woman; they could have a no-strings-attached relationship: win-win scenario. Still, at least Connie had agreed to his suggestion to meet up with himself and Melissa. It was important that they all try and bond as a family, even if Aimee wasn’t happy about it. He finished his coffee and prepared to go back to the office.

‘Barry, how is it going? Haven’t seen you for a while. I heard your daughter got married. Have a wedding coming up myself. Have you any tips?’ a plummy voice asked from behind him.

Barry turned to see Jeremy Farrell bearing down on him. Suave, dapper in his sharp pin-striped suit, Jeremy was one of Barry’s least favourite club members. The older man loved the sound of his own voice, loved boasting about his business exploits and the famous names he’d dealt with during his stockbroking years. He’d recently taken early retirement because of heart problems, but he continued to work on a consultancy basis for his old company, Crookes & Co. He was constantly advising his golfing buddies on their investments, advocating this share or the other.

Eighteen months previously, he’d told Barry that AdCo, a private banking group, was being floated on the stock exchange and suggested he should invest a few bob. Barry had taken his advice, as his own accountant had agreed that it was a good bet. He’d made a fast buck on the tip, selling high a year later, making about five thousand. Buttons to the high flyers in the club, some of whom had raked in a small fortune. Barry had been sorry he’d been so conservative, especially when he saw the gleaming new Series 5 Beemer Glen Harris had bought out of his profits.

‘Jeremy! How are things?’ Barry put on his best hail-fellow-well-met voice and gave the other man a hearty handshake.

‘Good. Things are good, apart from this damn wedding. Three sons went up the aisle with no trouble. Now, my youngest, and only daughter, is on the move, and the difference is unbelievable. Tears, tantrums, traumas. All I’m getting is hassle and a fast-depleting bank account.’ Jeremy rolled his eyes.

Barry laughed. ‘Tell me about it. Thank God I won’t be going through that again for another few years.’

‘Listen.’ Jeremy leaned in conspiratorially. ‘Have you five minutes? I’ve a good tip for you if you’re interested. If you did well with AdCo, you’ll hit the jackpot with SecureCo International Plus. Are you interested?’

‘I’ll listen to what you have to say, Jeremy,’ Barry agreed.

‘Good man. Sit down there and I’ll sort out two coffees.’

Barry sat down. No harm in listening to what Jeremy had to say, and this time he wouldn’t be a wuss. If he felt it was worth while, he’d throw more than a few measly thousand at it. This time, he’d make a killing like Glen Harris had. A brand-new Beemer would go down a treat with Aimee and Melissa. His younger daughter liked swanky cars. It was crucial, she’d once told him, to keep up with the girls in her class. Was it possible she’d asked for him to buy them a holiday home abroad as so many girls in her class had one and she’d like to be able to say she was going to France or Portugal, or Spain or wherever? Melissa thought money grew on trees, he thought fondly, thinking he must ring her and check in to see what she was up to. She was on her summer holidays, and it was the first time she’d been allowed to stay at home alone without a childminder. Aimee had been having second thoughts about it after finding empty alcopop bottles on the balcony the day of Debbie’s wedding. His wife was seriously pissed off with their daughter, and Melissa knew that, if there was any more misbehaving, she was in deep trouble. He’d phone her as soon as he got to the car, he decided, clearing a space for Jeremy to place the steaming coffee cups and settling back to hear what the stockbroker had to say.

Please don’t let me throw up, please let me get through this OK
, Aimee Davenport prayed silently as she took a deep, steadying breath and walked into the Four Seasons, her heels sinking into the luxurious deep-pile carpet as she walked towards the lounge area, where she had arranged to meet one of her biggest clients, Roger O’Leary.

Two weeks ago, she had overseen the arrangements for his daughter’s million-euro-plus wedding, her remit to showcase ‘The Best of Irish’. She had followed her brief to the letter, right down to the Royal Tara china, the Louise Kennedy crystal, the prime organic Kilkenny beef and lamb, the oysters, lobsters and salmon, the specially grown herbs. Everything had been superlative, the result of months of hard work and minute attention to detail. It had been a huge success. The O’Learys had been more than happy. Competition between the massively wealthy businessmen in the country to outdo each other, or at least keep up with each other, was intense, and
Chez Moi
, the events and catering company she worked for, and other such companies, were reaping the rewards of such rivalry. Aimee had received many compliments during the big day, which had been deeply satisfying.

Her boss, Ian Kelleher, the MD of
Chez Moi
, had sent her a gushing, patronizing email telling her to stand back and take a well-deserved bow. What a prat, she’d thought in disgust. She’d organized many such events for the company, and it was time he put his money where his mouth was and upped her salary.

Today, she was meeting Roger and some of his business associates, at his request, and she had a feeling something was in the air. He had a business proposal to put to her, he’d said on the phone when he’d called to arrange the meeting. She needed to be in tip-top form, not queasy and tired as she was feeling now. She made her way to the ladies’ room to touch up her make-up. Aimee had arrived early deliberately. It always made her feel more in control to be the one doing the greeting. She studied her reflection in a mirror, glad she had the luxurious restroom to herself.

Fortunately, she looked fine, showing no outward sign of the discomfort she was feeling. Her green eyes, fringed with a fan of dark lashes, were bright, and clear. Her high cheekbones emphasized her good bone structure, inherited from her mother. Her glossy black hair was coiled up in a classy chignon, giving her a very groomed, business-like air. The sharp grey Donna Karan suit she wore was softened by a pale lilac cami. A single strand of pearls adorned her throat, matched by two pearl earrings. Her make-up was immaculate. Understated, chic – sophistication was the look Aimee had gone for, and she’d succeeded, she thought, studying herself critically as she retouched her lipstick. No one would ever know she was below par, she decided, slipping a small mint into her mouth in an effort to quell the queasiness she was feeling.

It was on the day of the O’Leary wedding when she’d been overcome by a sudden wave of nausea, that she’d had the heart-stopping realization that she might be pregnant. It had been a bolt out of the blue, and she’d almost cried with misery that this could be happening. She hadn’t even taken a test yet. She’d bought one, but she didn’t need it to tell her what she already knew, and she didn’t want to see the ultimate proof of what she considered to be an absolute personal disaster.

Aimee felt despair engulf her as she put her lipstick in her Prada handbag and snapped it shut. She emphatically did
not
want another child, with all the hassle it entailed. Melissa was more than enough to deal with and, now, with her career really going into orbit, bottles and nappies and sleepless nights, not to mention childcare arrangements, were the last thing Aimee needed or wanted.

What brutal timing. Melissa was at an age where she was old enough to look after herself without supervision, freeing Aimee up considerably to concentrate on her work. Children were so time-consuming and, right now, she needed all her time to capitalize on all her hard work over the past couple of years. The rewards were coming, and she wanted to embrace them and forge ahead.

She hadn’t told Barry she was pregnant – hell, she was hardly speaking to Barry. After the disaster of Debbie’s wedding, when she had embarrassed him in front of Connie and their daughter by bringing up the cost of the bash, there had been little thaw in the Arctic relations that currently existed between them.

She wished things were sorted. She missed their intimacy, their companionship. She was dying to tell him what was going on workwise. Until the lead-up to the O’Leary wedding, Barry had always shown great interest in her career, encouraging her, motivating her. That had all changed now. It was clear that he felt she was overtaking him in the career stakes, and he was finding it hard to handle. Now, he was sullen and withdrawn and moaning about having to do the grocery shopping because she was tied up. Had it all been lip service? It looked like it. Bitterness so sharp she could almost taste it swamped her. She’d never expected that sort of behaviour from Barry. It was his respect for her career that had tipped the balance as to whether or not she would marry him. It looked like she’d made a big mistake. But he had known what she was like when they’d married; he knew her goals. If he’d wanted a dull stay-at-home wife he should have stayed married to Saint Connie. Aimee sighed. As well as their problems over her career, they had the episode on Debbie’s wedding day to overcome. True, she hadn’t behaved very well, but there was no need to hold it over her head until kingdom come. Barry needed to get down off his high horse. Connie had given as good as she’d got; she was no shrinking violet. It had stung that he’d sat beside his ex-wife in the church and left her to her own devices.
That
was when she’d walked out.

How would her husband feel about having another child? How would Melissa feel? She might be highly miffed to have a new arrival. And they’d have to move. The penthouse was big, but for four of them? Aimee frowned. Her guest room would have to go.

What was she thinking? Making plans as if she was going to keep it. It was very early days yet. She had options. No one would know if she decided to have a termination. Why should she have to have a baby she didn’t want? Having a baby now would be a seismic shift in her life, a shift she didn’t want. Men were so bloody lucky. They never had to deal with consequences like this; it was always the woman left holding the baby, literally. Aimee was pretty sure Barry would be horrified if he knew what she was thinking. A jagged stab of guilt assailed her. This child was his as well as hers. By rights he should have some say. But by whose rights? What about her rights? She wanted to yell, frustration, rage and despair welling up. So many women wanted to have children and couldn’t and, now, here she was, saddled with one she didn’t have any desire for. She wasn’t maternal. She was the first to admit it. When she’d had Melissa she’d blithely assumed she would cope fine. She’d never forget the terror of those first few months, every time Melissa cried – and cried she had. She’d been a colicky baby, and Aimee had been convinced she was poisoning her. Fear had been her constant companion. Was she feeding her enough or too much? Had she a temperature and was she ailing, or was she just hot? Were yellow poos normal? Was the rash on her scalp normal? It had been totally nerve-wracking and she had been on edge until Melissa was well into toddlerhood. She’d tried not to compare herself to other mothers who seemed to cope so efficiently and without worrying. All Aimee had wanted to do was to get back to work, keep her head down and let the crèche deal with all the problems.

For the first time in her life, Aimee realized how good it would be to have someone she could talk with about her dilemma. Now was the time when a friend would be someone to lean on and confide in. And the one person she knew she could have done that with and not been judged or criticized would have been Gwen Larkin, one of her oldest friends. Unfortunately, they’d had a fairly nasty falling-out the day of Debbie’s wedding.

Aimee chewed the inside of her lip. Gwen was right to be annoyed with her, she admitted grudgingly. Aimee had treated her badly, pretending she hardly knew her so she wouldn’t have to introduce her to Roger O’Leary, but she had looked a sight, with her hair falling out of the comb at the back of her head and her wearing a wrinkled jacket and shabby jeans. And her two kids squabbling. Aimee had been in full career-woman mode that day, dressed to the nines and in killer heels, for the wedding. Her affluent and well-connected client would have had good cause to wonder what sort of set Aimee mixed with had she introduced him to Gwen. Aimee had said hello, and said she’d ring some time. Gwen wasn’t a fool, she must have known Roger was a client and that Aimee was talking business with him.