Woman to Woman (36 page)

He’d been so normal and businesslike the next day that she’d been able to relax a little, able to think she’d overreacted.

“What would I do without you, Aisling?” He smiled when she brought him a sandwich at lunchtime. She smiled briefly, glad that everything was back to normal.

But the incident still simmered in her mind, looming large in her head when the lights were out and she lay on her own in the big double bed. Should she say something to someone?

To Vivienne? Two months ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of asking the other woman what time it was, never mind what she should do about Leo.

Yet she’d come to really like Vivienne, to admire her courage and determination. Once Vivienne had realised that Aisling wasn’t some bored housewife toying with the idea of a job and using her contacts to get it, she’d dropped her frosty demeanour. In fact, she’d become a good friend. A single mother to eight-year-old Christine, Vivienne was a veteran of the child minder search and had given Aisling lots of advice on finding the right person to look after the twins.

Maybe she should tell Vivienne about Leo, Aisling mused.

She really wanted to. But she hated to admit to anyone that she didn’t know what to do, that he’d beaten her.

Aisling unzipped her small make-up bag, found her mascara and applied some to her upper eyelashes. She quickly ran her new lipstick over her lips and she was ready. She couldn’t resist turning sideways again to see her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she could feel her hipbones, she thought happily, smoothing her hands over the soft wool of the skirt.

Vivienne caught up with Aisling as she hurried along Fitzwilliam Square. It was ten past nine and they were both late.

“Bloody Leeson Street Bridge,” fumed Vivienne, walking as rapidly as a long, sleek red skirt and spindly high heels would allow.

“Some moron stalled his car and I was stuck for three changes of the lights. That made me so late, I’m parked practically at Baggot Street and today’s the day of the director’s lunch, so I really needed to be in early.”

“I got stuck on the bridge too,” said Aisling.

“I hope Leo isn’t in yet, he’ll go mad if I’m late. But I know he’s

going out about eleven, so if you need any help with the lunch today, call me.”

“You’re a star Vivienne said gratefully.

“I could do with some help because Caroline is on holiday this week and she usually gives me a hand. And we’re using new caterers today, so I need to double check to make sure everything is perfect.”

“Just ring me, I’d love to help.”

Aisling felt slightly comforted by the fact that Vivienne was late. It could happen to anyone. If Leo was already in the office, she’d tell him Vivienne had been stuck in the same traffic jam. Then he’d know she hadn’t simply overslept and was lying about what had delayed her. That was it, she’d tell him about Vivienne and the traffic on Leeson Street Bridge.

Leo was already there when she arrived at twelve minutes past-nine, hair flying as she bounded up the stairs. He always locked his office at night and it was now open, proof that he was at his desk and listening for her.

“Aisling,” he called out, as she put a foot on the staircase to her tiny office.

“Come here.”

Breathing heavily from her sprint from the car to the office and aware that she looked hot and flushed, she went into his office.

“I’m sorry, Leo,” she apologised, ‘the traffic was dreadful and I got stuck on Leeson Street Bridge for five minutes behind …”

“I don’t want excuses,” he snapped, obviously irritated.

“I

want you here before me in the morning. I want coffee on my desk when I arrive and,” he stared at her with distaste, “I want a secretary who looks respectable and not like she’s just run the mini marathon.”

Shocked, Aisling blinked rapidly, feeling her eyes prickle with tears. If he said one more thing, she’d cry. As if she hadn’t cried enough recently.

But Leo had obviously said all he wanted to say and had started reading his newspaper.

Aisling turned on her heel and fled. Once inside her own sanctum, she shut the door and dropped her handbag.

He’s a pig, a pig and I hate him, she howled. I hate him.

How dare he speak to me like I’m some sort of slave. How dare he think he can ask me personal questions, leer at me and then treat me like this. I hate him!

After ten minutes, she felt calm enough to get him a cup of coffee. He was still reading the paper and didn’t even look up when she entered the office. She placed the cup on his desk and left as silently as she’d come in.

Then she took the mug of strong, sweet coffee she’d poured for herself and went to the women’s toilet. She fixed her hair back into a neat pony tail, washed her face and reapplied her make-up. She added a squirt of perfume from the tiny Allure sample she’d got in the chemist’s.

Finished, she took a draught of coffee and looked at herself in the mirror. She stared at her reflection as if she was a stranger seeing her own face for the first time. Dispassionately, impartially.

An attractive woman stared back at her, a woman with recently discovered cheekbones, an oval-shaped face, a strong chin and large, expressive eyes the colour of just-washed denim. It was a strong face, a womanly face. The face of a woman who was a working mother, a survivor, someone who refused to let life knock her down.

She’d done a lot in the past three months, coped with her marriage breaking up, coped with going back to work, even coped with looking after two boisterous boys. She wasn’t going to let some jumped-up bully ruin everything she’d achieved so far, was she? No way, Aisling said aloud. No way.

Watch out Leo Murphy. Don’t try your bullying tactics any more.” She remained in her office all morning, talking several times to Leo on the intercom as she transferred phone calls. He didn’t ask to see her. She was grateful to be left alone.

“I’m going out now. I’ll be back for the lunch at one he said in clipped tones on the intercom at five to eleven. Hope you crash, pig, Aisling said to herself.

He had just left when Vivienne rang. “Can you come down and help, Aisling? I saw Leo go out, so I hoped you’d be free.”

“Sure. I’ll be down in five minutes.”

Vivienne was wrestling with a sash window when Aisling walked into the boardroom.

“Damn thing’s stuck,” wheezed Vivienne, pink-faced with exertion. That painter we had last month glued everything together with paint. I’ll kill him. I just can’t open this window and it’s like an oven in here if you don’t.”

It took both of them to free the window from the painted frame, but once they did the window slid up easily. A welcome cool breeze drifted in along with the noise of cars and motorbike couriers racing over to Leeson Street.

“It’s a lovely room said Aisling, admiring the gilt-framed hunting prints and an imposing mahogany table in the centre of the room, surrounded by twenty high-backed chairs.

Aisling had peered in the door a few times but she’d never been at one of the monthly directors’ meetings where Vivienne took minutes in her perfect Pitman shorthand.

She knew that Caroline usually brought in coffee, tea and biscuits midway through the meetings, and that sometimes the senior partner, Edward Richardson, opened a bottle of vintage port if the company had enjoyed an especially profitable month.

Not that anybody ever got drunk, Vivienne explained.

“Except that time when Tom Reid was taking this flu remedy and he had two glasses of port at the meeting and practically fell asleep.”

Today was going to be different. Richardson, Reid and Finucane were welcoming two new partners to the firm and celebrating the most successful year of business in their thirty-two-year history. So Edward decided to celebrate in style.

They could have taken a room in Le Coq Hardi or any one of Dublin’s posh restaurants, but he preferred to host a private luncheon in the boardroom, a tradition dating back to the early days of the business.

There are eight clients coming,” Vivienne said, looking at a notepad where she’d drawn up a list of things to do. That makes sixteen place settings and I hope they all fit. We’ve never had so many people at a lunch before. I just hope the caterers are up to scratch,” she added fervently.

She’d been responsible for organising these annual lunches for seven years and had used the same caterers every year.

Until this year.

“I can’t believe they’ve gone out of business,” she told Aisling two weeks previously. They were so reliable and the food was always beautiful. I just left it completely up to them.

Lord knows where I’ll get anyone as good.”

Exclusive Dining, picked out of the phone book, sounded perfect. Vivienne had been crossing her fingers for ten days now, praying that everything would go according to plan.

“Is this the right room?” asked a masculine voice. A sulky looking young man in jeans and a fluorescent yellow Tshirt stood at the door with a big cardboard box in his arms.

“Yes,” said Vivienne.

“Put it over there, thank you,” she added, gesturing at a long table which stood at the far end of the room covered with a white tablecloth. He put the box down with an ominous clatter. I hope that’s not the china, thought Aisling with a twinge of unease, or they’ll be eating off cracked plates. Miraculously, nothing appeared to be broken. He took white plates out of the box one by one, banging each one noisily as he stacked them on the table.

“Sabrina is supposed to be coming at half eleven with the food, isn’t she?” Vivienne asked him.

“Sabrina’s sick. Debbie’s doing the food,” he muttered, shoving the empty packing case out of the way under the table.

“I’ll get the rest of the stuff out of the van. There are two more boxes, if you come with me to help.”

“What do you mean, “Sabrina’s sick”?” asked Vivienne anxiously.

“She was fine yesterday. And who’s Debbie, is she a partner or what? I’ve never met her.”

“She works for Sabrina sometimes,” he answered disinterestedly.

Vivienne caught Aisling’s eye and grimaced. “I’ll get the rest of the stuff and you ring Sabrina,” advised Aisling.

“I’m Aisling.” she said to the packer.

“What’s your name?”

“Bob.”

“Right Bob.” she said resolutely.

“Show me the way to the van.”

She and Bob had unpacked all the china, cutlery, wine glasses and napkins when Vivienne returned, her face as white as her blouse.

“Sabrina has a twenty-four-hour bug and she can’t work.

But she says Debbie will be here on the dot of half eleven and she’s very reliable although she hasn’t done many lunches on her own … I have a bad feeling about this,” she whispered to Aisling. You and me both, thought Aisling.

It was nearly a quarter to twelve before Debbie arrived with lunch. Vivienne had carefully arranged place settings and adjusted the four baskets of flowers with uncharacteristic nervousness.

“I hate doing this,” revealed Vivienne.

“Leave me a mountain of documents to organise or get me to type hundred-page contracts, and I’m fine. But organising catering is a complete nightmare. I’ve never been much of a cook. Christine makes better toast than I do and I certainly can’t come up with menus at the drop of a hat. Oh, here she is. Thank God.”

Debbie was energetic, fresh-faced and about nineteen.

“Hello all,” she said brightly, as she walked into the room carrying a large aluminium cold-food container. “I’m Debbie, Sabrina’s standin. Oh, everything look so pretty. The carnations are nice, I love carnations. Grab this for me, Bob?” she

She and Bob blithely carried in the cold and hot food containers, while she chatted away volubly, discussing the traffic, the weather and how she was dying for a coffee.

“Can I smoke in here?” she asked, producing a pack of cigarettes when Vivienne handed her a mug of coffee.

“I’m afraid not,” replied Vivienne.

Debbie shrugged good-humouredly and sat down to drink her coffee. The

fact that she was late wasn’t even mentioned. Aisling wondered whether Debbie had ever catered professionally before.

For all she knew, Debbie could have been a junior Masterchef winner who simply wasn’t into the formalities of catering as a business. Maybe cooking was her forte and she wasn’t interested in making the clients feel relaxed and confident about the meal.

But when she got a look at the dressed salmon, Aisling knew they were in trouble. The fish was the see-through rose colour of undercooked salmon. Food poisoning time, she

It was perfectly arranged, dressed with beautifully cut pieces of lemon and cucumber, and almost definitely half-raw.

She ran an experienced eye over the dressed crab with Dublin Bay prawns. The crab looked cooked but, if the salmon was undercooked, God only knew what condition the prawns were in. Shellfish food poisoning registered about eight on the food poisoning Richter scale, bested only by botulism. They really were in trouble.

Aisling might be nervous about her typing and scared of dealing with her difficult boss, but if there was one thing she was perfectly sure about, it was food.

“Vivienne,” she said.

“We’ve got a problem.”

“What is it?” asked Vivienne, busy positioning the white and red wine goblets in exactly the right places.

There was no point in beating around the bush. The salmon is practically raw, Vivienne,” Aisling said as gently as she could.

“Debbie hasn’t cooked the fish properly. It’s definitely still raw. And I don’t like the look of the prawns either.

We’ll give everyone food poisoning.”

“Oh my God,” said the other woman in horror.

“You’re not serious. What can we do, it’s twelve now, they’ll be here in forty-five minutes. Debbie.” she shrieked.

“Yes?”

“The food is raw!”

“Don’t be silly, it couldn’t be. I mean, I did my best,” began Debbie defensively.

Aisling bent down and tasted the coleslaw. It was faintly bitter, definitely off.

“We’re in big trouble, girls. This is off too. When did you do all this, Debbie? Coleslaw wouldn’t go off that quickly.”