Mr Right for the Night (23 page)

‘A suit with a three-bedroomed house.’

‘Ah well, that’s  me out  of the picture  so.’ Mark stood up  to reheat  the  kettle.  ‘This place has only two bedrooms.’

‘So, Claire,  what   do  you  think   he  meant   by  all of that?’

‘Dunno.’

‘I mean, it’s pretty  odd for blokes to start  talking about marriage  out of the blue.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Claire, I don’t think  you’re listening to me.’

‘I am,  I  am.  Now  stop  it,  Andrew,   stop  that. Good boy.’

‘Do you think  I’m reading  in to it too much?’

‘Well, kind of. But you know what I think. I think you  fancy  each  other  like hell.  You  really  should think about  having  a relationship with  someone  at this  stage.  A proper  relationship like.  Not  one  of those  silly flings  that  you’ve been  having  recently. With all those unsuitable people.’

‘Do you know who you sound like?’ Anna laughed,

‘Your mother.’

‘Oh no, do I?’

‘Don’t worry,  we all turn  into our  mothers  some day.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of,’ Claire said doubtfully.

‘I’m beginning  to think  Simon sees me as some old mother  hen these days.’

‘Ah nonsense,  your  imagination is in overdrive,’ Anna said dismissively.

Claire  decided  not  to  divulge  any  information regarding  her  husband’s  late  nights.  Nor  mention the  planned  trip  to  the  National Art  Gallery  with Tom. Anna  would  only get the wrong  idea.  It was better to tell nobody her business. Then they couldn’t be jumping to ridiculous conclusions.  Anyway it was obvious Anna had a lot on her plate at the moment.  The pressure of this interview and all this sudden daft talk about  marriage  . . .

‘Claire, are you still there?’

‘Sure.  Listen,  Anna,  that’s  Andrew  crying.  I’m going to go and put him down.  Talk to you soon.’

She was gone.

Anna headed  back  up to her room.  Claire  had  it so wrong  about  herself and Mark.  She didn’t fancy Mark. And even if she did she’d never ever let him know.  Men  like  Mark   would  run  a  mile  if  they thought  you  were  seriously  interested.   Men  were hunters.  That’s  why  M
ark   (between   short   inter
vals) was  always  single.  Hadn’t  she already  made one mistake with Anthony Lorcan? Remember  him? She gave an  involuntary shudder. Would  she ever forget?

She sat alone  in her sitting  room  thinking  it was very small after  Mark’s  place. It was cold too,  and cheerless.

Anthony  Lorcan,   eh?  He  had  chased  her.  Ran around UCD after  her.  Waited  outside  her lectures for her. Stared  at her constantly in the library.  She hadn’t  really  fancied  him  at  all.  At  first.  But  she was  flattered.  Flattered   that  someone  who  didn’t look like a complete  p
ig actually  fancied her. Imag
ine someone  decent  fancying  her – Anna  Allstone! Flattery  of course though  was her big downfall. She began to take notice of this Anthony fella. She began to  feel  disappointed the  days  she  didn’t  see  him hanging around. Then  she  took  it upon 
herself
  to hang around his lectures. To catch him coming out. Not  that  she let on of course.  Oh  no! She’d make a point  of turning  her back  once he’d spotted  her. This drove him wild. Anna was delighted.  It was so much nicer for someone  to be mad about  you than the other way around.

He  wasn’t  a Brad  Pitt  or  anything.  But he  was cute.  Even  Claire  admitted she  wouldn’t   say  no. That  gave  Anna  an  enormous sense  of  power.  A friend  of
his
  had  told  a friend  of
hers
he had  the hots  for her.  Only he thought she was too  hard  to get. This made  Anna  determined to live up to this wonderful illusion.

Nobody had ever thought Anna hard  to get. It was fun.

The game had started.

Anna was going to play it for all it was worth.  She started to make serious eye contact with him in the UCD bar in the afternoons, over the pool tables. His  sandy-coloured hair  would  flop into  his green eyes and she’d catch him flicking it and looking over far more than was necessary.

But she always  left the bar  first. Even if she was having a whale of a time and desperately  wanted  to stay on.

She always left the bar first.

And then one day for some reason she didn’t leave. She stayed on in the
bar with a crowd  from her phi
losophy class and  got drunk.  Plastered.  Wasted.  In fact she became so twisted  that  she didn’t recognize herself in the Ladies’ mirror.

When  she  stumbled  out  Anthony  was  standing beside  the  door.   She  fell.  He  caught   her.   They snogged for half an hour.

And  then  she  did  something   she’d  never  done before.   Without  a  word   she  disentangled  herself from  Anthony’s  golden  arms  and  made  a  beeline for Mark. Told  him she was so sick she was going to die. And made him escort her from the bar.

What  Anthony  Lorcan  saw leaving the UCD bar that  evening was the  most  blasé woman  he’d ever met in his life. Nobody had ever walked out on him like that.  On the arm of another bloke too!

Instead of being insulted,  Anthony  was intrigued. The girl must have tons  of confidence to be able to take or leave guys as she pleased. In Anthony’s short nineteen years he’d never met a girl who carried  on like  that.  The  lads  did  it  all  the  time  and  it  was usually  hilarious.   But  now  the  lads  were  taking the piss out  of him and  wondering  where  his bird had  disappeared.  Nobody treated  Anthony  Lorcan like  that,  he  decided.  Nobody. As though  his  life depended   on  it  he  was  determined  to  get  Anna Allstone.

What Anthony  Lorcan  did not see, however,  was the unobtainable woman  of his dreams,  puking  her guts out into a pretty b
ed of flowers. Less than a hun
dred yards from the bar, Mark  Landon  was holding Anna’s  shoulder-length hair  within  safe reach  of it getting saturated with sick. But Anthony was spared the unpleasant sight.

He didn’t hear Anna wail, ‘Oh my God, what have I DONE!’  before  bursting  into  hysterical  drunken tears and collapsing under a tree, convinced that she could never ever face Anthony  Lorcan  again.

But face him again she did. And although (due to tremendous willpower)  she turned  him down  again twice, eventually  she succumbed  under  the strain  of his relentless pursuit.

You see somebody  had  spotted  him  over  in the canteen.  Chatting to Victoria  Reilly. And that  had put  the  fear  of  God   into   her.   Because  Victoria wouldn’t be bothered playing hard to get with a guy like Anthony. Victoria got whatever she wanted with an irritating toss of her bleached blonde bob. And so, after a couple of sleepless nights,  Anna  decided she was going to say yes to Anthony.

The  following  day  when  Anthony yet
again approached her after one of her lectures for a date, she said yes.

Though  she desperately  wanted  to say no. Because  by  saying  yes  she  also  knew  she  was saying GAME OVER.

Of course,  it didn’t  finish the  following  evening over dinner.  Or during the week when they snogged all the  way  through a  boring  film despite  violent kicks  to  their seatbacks   by  two  teenage  boys.  It lasted,  say  . . .  about   three  weeks.  And  then  one afternoon he failed to meet her at the ‘blob’ on the Arts concourse. She thought she must  have got the time wrong  and rang him. And he sounded  distant, saying he’d forgotten. She only half believed him.

The next  day she tried  to get him to talk.  It was a  complete  disaster.  She’d never  forget  his  panic
-
stricken face when she tried to discuss their ‘future’.

‘It’s best if we take things slowly,’ he said, fidgeting furiously  with  his beer  mat  in Madigan’s  pub  one Tuesday  night.

‘Do you think  I’m rushing  things?’

‘A bit.’ He stared at the ceiling as if Michelangelo himself had painted  it. ‘We’ve only been seeing each other three weeks.’

‘Yeah I know  but . . . but you’ve never once told me how you
feel
about  me.’

He said nothing.  God he was infuriating!

‘Sometimes I think  you  don’t even  like  me,’ she continued. It was true. Anthony, on the few occasions he wasn’t trying to rip her clothes off, usually looked like he’d rather  be with  anyone  in the world  other than  her.

‘Look, I wouldn’t  be here if I didn’t like you,’ he sighed resignedly.

‘Maybe  we  should  split  up,’  she  suggested,  not meaning  a word  of it. She’d no intention of parting company  with him. But the idea of losing her might shake him up a bit, she thought craftily.

‘Actually I was kind of thinking  along those lines myself,’ he said.

Anna couldn’t have been more surprised  if he had slapped her face. She was flabbergasted!  This wasn’t what she wanted  at all. Not  at all!

What was she going to do? She couldn’t very well just turn  around now  and  say, ‘Ah no  I was  only messing.’

So she said nothing.

All words  escaped her. She was miserable.

‘But we can be friends,’ he squeezed her thigh. ‘I’d like that.’

God, she’d never get over the embarrassment.

So that’s why Claire  had
no business  giving her advice  about  men.  Anna  had  already  learned  her lesson.

The hard
way.

Claire  got  ready  as soon  as Simon  left the  house. Fortunately Fiona  had  agreed  to  babysit.  Andrew had  reached  the  stage where  one eye looking  over him was an eye too  short.  Pulling phone  wires and reaching  for creepy-crawlies  were great  fun. Thank  God for
Rugrats
!

Fiona arrived  and settled herself and her books in the kitch
en  with a cup of coffee and a C
lubmilk.

A golden opportunity for a bath, Claire thought as she relaxed  in a mountain of bubbles.  She couldn’t wait  to  catch  up  with  Tom.  It was  always  nice to meet a friend. Friend. Hmmm.  Could  she really call Tom a friend?  Sure she barely knew him. Ah, hang on,  what  harm  was it? They were only looking  at paintings,  for God’s sake!

She swiped  a bath  towel  off the boiling  radiator and  wrapped it  around her  damp,   fresh-smelling skin.

It was going to be a great day.

She slipped  out  without Andrew  noticing.  Tears were  avoided  that  way.  The sun was high and  the bright  light stung  her
eyes. Donning  a pair  of sun
glasses solved that  problem.

At the gallery Tom looked  pretty  anxious.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Parking’s a nightmare in this city and those bloody clampers are everywhere.’

‘Tell me about  it. Why do you think I work night shifts?’

He looked well. But
she didn’t tell him this.
Obviously
. After all it wasn’t a date or anything.

The morning  passed pleasantly. Tom was a bit of an  expert  in art  history  and  through his extensive knowledge  was  someho
w  able  to  bring  the  paint
ings to life.

Afterwards over  coffee  and  carrot   cake  Claire discovered  she’d a  lot  in  common  with  Tom  and they chatted easily for hours. Just before twelve Tom apologetically announced that  he had  really  better get  going.  Where  had
the time  flown,  Claire  won
dered. Reluctantly she stood  up,  not  sure what  she could  do with  herself for the rest of the afternoon. There  was  no  point  going  home  when  Fiona  had been booked  for the entire day. Suddenly an idea hit her. If she called into Simon’s office now she might catch him for an early lunch. And sure why not? She was all dressed up with nowhere  in particular to go.

Claire  strode  into  Simon’s  office  unannounced. She flinched at the sight of Simon and Shelley, their heads  bent  earnestly  over  some  documents on  his desk.  Her  long  sleek mane  of  hair  hung  over  her right  shoulder.   Her  short  suede  skirt  revealed  far more than  was  necessary  for  work  on  a  Monday morning,   and  her  tight-fitting   cashmere   cardigan strained against  her ample bust.

‘Hello,  Simon.’  Claire   tried  her  best  to  sound bright and  breezy but  her voice sounded  more  like a squeak.

‘Claire.’ The  expression  on  Simon’s face  was  a mixture  of surprise and alarm.  ‘Is everything okay?’

‘Sure,’ Claire was determined not to waver under Shelley’s menacing   stare,   ‘I’ve come  to  treat   my hubby to a slap-up lunch. Hello, Shelley.’ She nodded curtly to the other  woman.

‘God,  this  is  a  surprise,’   Simon  sounded   both pleased  and  relieved.  ‘The only  thing  is . . . we’re fairly snowed  under  at the mo––’

‘Don’t  you  worry  ab
out  a  thing,’  Shelley inter
rupted, patting  Simon’s arm. ‘You go off and enjoy your lunch,’ she cooed  and Claire  felt a resentment she had not thought was possible.

‘You’re a star,’ Simon called over his shoulder  as they left the large office with  its futuristic  pieces of furniture, potted  plants  in abundance and secretary sitting moodily  on  the  enormous mahogany desk, biting her manicured talons.