Two For Joy (50 page)

She was relieved when the class ended. Her butt was aching as much as her calves and thighs. But what toned calves and thighs they were, she thought with satisfaction as she lathered herself with Carolina Herrera shower gel. She'd gone mad and treated herself to a host of goodies in Sephora, in the Rockefeller Center. How she loved that shop, with its exotic scents and magical arrays of glass jars and bottles all stylishly displayed, teasing and tempting her. Dollars just disappeared out of her purse when she gave in to temptation after a hard day lugging trays around. She adored wandering around inhaling this perfume, sampling the other, testing this cream, or that jelly.

She'd bought herself a gorgeous Tod handbag yesterday and she was skint again. She was sick of it. She couldn't afford New York and it was getting her down. She was so looking forward to her luxury weekend with Neil. It was a pity he was only starting out in the motor trade; if he had a few garages under his belt he'd be loaded. He was probably in hock up to his ears, unfortunately. And if he wasn't he would be by the time she was finished with him. Her eyes sparkled at the thought of money being showered on her. Neil would want to impress her and she'd certainly let him.

She should ring him, she supposed. He would think it odd that she hadn't given him her phone number. It was just that everyone knew New York's code was 212/718. Unfortunately Yonkers was 914 and she didn't want him knowing that she didn't live in Manhattan. She might give him a call nearer the time he was coming over. She had no intention of trotting out to JFK, he could get a taxi to the hotel. She'd tell him that she couldn't get off work. She was going to tell him that she worked in publishing. It seemed to be a totally cool career in NYC. She could say she worked for
Vogue
or
Vanity Fair,
as a staffer. She was damned if she was telling him that she worked as a waitress in a diner off Times Square. She could hardly believe it herself, she thought despondently as she dried her hair. One of the girls in the house had got an office job but she'd gone back waitressing because the money was better. It all came down to money, the harder you worked the more you made, but she didn't want to work at all!

What a failure she was. Carina thought she was mad to feel like that. Her colleague was thrilled with the amount she was making in tips. She was spending all her spare time doing sporty things in the Catskills and having a ball, according to herself. She spent her night-time socializing in Irish bars. Lorna was much more interested in clubbing in the Bubble Lounge in TriBeCa, or Lansky's. She'd strutted her stuff but got nowhere in Cibar and had tried not to be in awe of the totally gorgeous model types that floated around sipping cocktails as if they were born to it. Cheetah cost a minimum of $100 a go and was full of Europeans, but it was clubby and different and she'd enjoyed it. Not so Carina, who claimed a night in Tir na Nog, the Irish pub in Penn Plaza, was far more fun and you never had to put your hand in your pocket. She was a grave disappointment to Lorna. She didn't seem to mind her long waitressing stints. She was always chatting and laughing with the customers. Lorna couldn't be bothered.

The realization that she did not want to work for the rest of her life had hit Lorna like a hammer blow. She didn't want to go back home with her tail between her legs and work godawful shifts as a receptionist in a hotel. Nor did she want to get married and live in a boring three-bed semi-detached. And she'd seen enough of life in NYC to realize that most single women worked to pay their rents if they lived in Manhattan, with not a lot left for retail therapy.
Sex and the City
was not about the likes of her, unfortunately, no matter how much she aspired to the lifestyle. It cost an arm and a leg to socialize. She wanted to be wealthy enough never to have to worry about money again but she just couldn't figure out how she was going to achieve that particular goal. She certainly couldn't do it on her own, she admitted.

Lorna sighed deeply. Under no circumstances could she say that she had taken New York by storm. That had simply not happened, nor was it likely to. She hadn't the drive or the nerve to crack it. The sophisticated façade that had worked for her in Dublin did not cut it here, because there was nothing to support it. She was on the make like everyone else and she couldn't hack it, and that was a bitter pill to have to swallow.

Perhaps she should start going to the theatre and art galleries to try and meet some eligibles, but it all seemed like such hard work after a ten-hour stint on her feet. If she could even find a sugar daddy she might consider that option, she thought ruefully as she crossed Eighth Avenue and hurried along West 43rd to work.

*   *   *

Heather twisted the key into the lock of the badly warped wooden door and let herself into the small two-bedroom cottage that Carleton had recently added to their ‘For Sale' lists. The owner had died suddenly and the executors wanted a quick sale. They had told Ray that they would be prepared to spend some money on smartening the place up. Heather took out her pen and notepad and began to take notes. A thorough cleaning job was called for, windows in particular. A coat of paint throughout – perhaps a warm buttermilk colour would be nice, she pencilled in, in brackets. Throw out existing sofa and threadbare chairs. Better off not having them there at all. A few lampshades to cover naked bulbs. Some blinds on the windows to replace tatty curtains, she scribbled happily, in her element.

Only her second day on the job and she was given a nice meaty challenge. And the joy of having a car. Neil had been promising and promising that he was going to organize a car for her and he never had. She didn't need him or his cars now, she thought with satisfaction. She had a great job and her own set of wheels and all on her own merit. It made her feel good about herself. Better than she'd felt in weeks.

Today was a good day – she didn't feel lonely, forlorn and in the depths of despair. She hadn't thought of Neil for at least two hours. That was progress, she thought ruefully. ‘Up yours, you bastard,' she muttered as she inspected the bedroom and wrinkled her nose at the stale smell that permeated the room. By the time she was finished with this place no one would recognize it.

When she was finished work tonight she might go for basketball practice. She'd put on ten pounds since her split with Neil; the waistband of her suit was digging into her uncomfortably and she had the beginnings of jowls where once she'd had cheekbones. Time to get a grip, Heather decided as she locked the door after her and sat into her gleaming pride and joy. She'd show Neil Brennan that life was just as good without him. She didn't need a man in her life, she was perfectly capable of managing without one. She was going to buy a place of her own and be completely independent. She drove down the narrow winding lane, ablaze with brilliant yellow gorse. The sky was cloudless and the heat of the sun warmed her. She was so glad she hadn't left Kilronan, she thought gratefully as a field of young corn came into view, a rich emerald carpet of green ringed by dark green hedgerows. She was about ten miles from the town, in the depths of the countryside. It was a peaceful place to be. She smiled remembering how she'd sat cursing in traffic, waiting to get to an apartment or town house in Dublin. There really was no contest, she thought happily as she pulled in and rolled down her window, content to sit for a little while and enjoy the vista.

41

Heather was busy typing out an inventory when she vaguely noticed that someone had come into the office.

‘Hello, Heather,' a familiar voice said, and she looked up to see Oliver Flynn looking at her in some surprise. ‘You do get around.' He smiled.

‘Well, let's hope I get on better in this job than I did down the road,' she said wryly.

‘I'm sure you'll be fine. Er, is Ray around?'

‘He's not, I'm afraid, he's showing two properties and he won't be back until this afternoon.'

‘Oh!' Oliver looked disgruntled.

‘Can I help?'

‘Well, I'm putting the house up for sale, I was hoping he'd look after it for me.'

‘Oh, I'm sure he will. Are you moving?' Heather asked innocently, wondering why Oliver and his wife would want to move from that beautiful house overlooking the lake.

Oliver flushed. ‘I'm in the same boat as yourself, Heather. On my own again. Noreen and I are separating,' he said gruffly.

‘Oh! I'm sorry, Oliver. That's rough,' Heather sympathized, trying to hide her surprise. What had gone wrong there?

‘That's life. You never know what's going to happen next.' Oliver smiled ruefully and her heart went out to him. What a horrible thing to happen. He seemed such a nice bloke.

‘Well, I'll get Ray to make an appointment with you to have a look around and give you a price guideline. And I can organize for a photographer to take a few photos. We'll get the signs up in the next few days, get the ads in the property pages and organize the viewings. If you'll just give me a number we can contact you at, that's all I need for the moment,' Heather said matter-of-factly.

‘I'll give you my mobile number.' He called out the digits and she took it down, feeling sorry for the harassed-looking man in front of her.

‘As soon as Ray comes back I'll get him to give you a call. If I can get my hands on our photographer, would tomorrow morning be all right for him to take a few photos? Exterior shots are fine, if that's what you prefer, but a few interior shots always help that little bit extra,' she said tactfully.

‘That's no problem, Heather. I'll take a couple of hours off.'

‘If you like, I can come and let him in so that you don't have to hang around,' she offered.

‘Would you? I did have a meeting with architects that I'd prefer not to postpone. I'd appreciate that, Heather.'

‘OK, I'll be at your house for nine and I can set the alarm when we're finished,' Heather assured him.

She watched him leave. At least she and Neil hadn't been married or even engaged when they'd parted. Break-ups must be even worse when you were married. All that legal stuff that had to be dealt with. She chewed the top of her pen, glad that she hadn't had those complications in her break-up. Sighing, she flicked through her Rolodex for the photographer's number.

*   *   *

‘Call for you, Neil, I'll transfer it.' Carol stood at the door of her office and yelled at her boss. ‘You better hurry, it's transatlantic.'

Neil's heart did a somersault. ‘Catch you again, Tony,' he said to the man he was talking to and took off at a trot to his office. He took a couple of deep breaths before he picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, Neil Brennan,' he said coolly.

‘Well, hello there, big boy,' Lorna drawled down the phone. ‘Are you getting in training for me?'

‘Do I need to? I'm fairly fit,' he riposted.

‘You could never be fit enough for New York and a demanding woman.' Lorna giggled. ‘Listen, we're putting the latest edition of the magazine to bed so I'm not going to be able to meet you at the airport. Just take a cab to the hotel and I'll meet you in Jack's bar. You should get there around four, NY time.'

‘Oh, I was looking forward to a big kiss in arrivals.' Neil was crestfallen.

‘Sorry about that,' Lorna said airily. ‘It's not like home here. I'm lucky to be getting time off. You know, the mighty dollar and all that. Make sure your credit card is clear. I'm going to take you shopping. Saks men's department is waiting for you. No one in Kilronan will be able to keep up with you.'

‘Sounds good. We might go shopping to that Victoria's place too,' he suggested.

‘We'll see. I have my eye on a few things that I might allow you to buy me. And we're only a stone's throw from Tiffany's.'

‘Steady on, Lorna,' Neil said in alarm.

‘I'm high maintenance, Neil, don't ever forget that,' Lorna warned. ‘Have to go now, I've to go to a meeting with the editor-in-chief. 'Byeeee.'

Neil heard the click of the receiver being put down. She was something else. And the thing was, she was perfectly serious about Tiffany's. He was paying a fortune for a top-notch hotel, now she was looking for jewellery from Tiffany's. Lorna hadn't been exaggerating when she announced that she was ‘high maintenance'. Was she worth it though? That was the big question. At least she'd phoned him. He'd better get down to the bank and see if he could increase his credit limit on his Visa card. His accountant would have a fit, but it was a once-off, he comforted himself. He couldn't go to New York on a shoestring.

Whistling, he shrugged into his jacket and headed for the bank.

*   *   *

‘Noreen, you're back in London.' Rajiv couldn't hide his delight at the other end of the phone.

‘Yes, I am. I wondered could we meet. Somewhere private?' she asked, feeling butterflies doing tangos in her tummy.

‘But of course, Noreen. Is something wrong?'

‘I just need to talk to you,' Noreen repeated.

‘There's a very nice hotel in Knightsbridge, just behind Harrods, called the Franklin, they have discreet drawing-rooms that we could talk in, and a rather good restaurant downstairs if you'd like dinner,' he suggested.

‘That sounds perfect, Rajiv. Could we meet tomorrow?' she asked hesitantly.

‘This evening if you wish. I can be free,' he said in his melodic lilting voice.

‘OK,' she agreed, wanting to get it over with.

‘Shall I pick you up? Where are you staying?'

‘No, no,' she demurred hastily, preferring to make her own way there. ‘I might indulge in a little bit of shopping first,' she fibbed.

‘OK, Noreen, whatever you wish. The Franklin for five thirty? Six?'

‘Five thirty's fine. I'll see you there,' Noreen said lightly. ‘'Bye.' She put down the receiver and exhaled deeply. Telling a man that you've slept with once, and only then because you were pissed, that you were pregnant was not what she had ever planned for herself, and at her age it was ridiculous. Once she'd told Rajiv and got that out of the way she was going to rent a flat of her own until she found a place where she wanted to live.