Woman to Woman (18 page)

“You mean that Michael and I might get back together,” whispered Aisling hopefully.

“Nobody knows what’s going to happen,” her mother said diplomatically.

“I just can’t see the two of you split up for very long. Michael isn’t stupid. He’ll miss the boys and his life with you. He won’t be able to forget all about the last twelve years just like that.”

“You think so?” Aisling was ten once again, with a big tear in her new green striped dress from climbing over the fence at the back of the park and getting stuck on the barbed wire. She was waiting for her mother to fix it, to fix everything. Mam always knew the right thing to say. Her gentle and kind voice softened the harshest blow. She could mend any rip with her tiny, almost invisible stitches, dry the bitterest tears with the right words, and straighten out Aisling’s world when everything seemed awry.

Now Aisling wanted her to fix something that had been battered radically out of shape. It wasn’t fair, was it?

“I’m sorry, Mam,” she said quickly.

“I shouldn’t have asked that. Jesus, if I don’t know what’s going to happen or how he’s going to think, I can hardly ask you.”

“Aisling, I’d love to tell you it’ll all work out between you and Michael, but I can’t. It may not work out the way you want. And you’ll have to face. that I do wish things were different, though,” sighed her mother.

“I know you’re putting on a brave face, darling, but it’s not going to be easy. I’d love if there was something I could say to make you feel better, but I don’t know what to say.”

“As long as you don’t tell Dad what’s really happened,” begged Aisling, ‘that’s the best thing you could do.”

“Your father isn’t that bad …” began Eithne loyally.

“Mam,” interrupted Aisling, ‘he’d be disgusted we’re splitting up and it would be all my fault. You know what he’d say.

I can just do without that sort of disapproval right now. I mean, I have to psych myself up to get a job for a start. That’s going to take about ten times more selfconfidence than I’ve got as it is. I mean,” she said tiredly, “I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night just thinking about it all in terror.

What if I’m useless?”

“Don’t be daft, Aisling.” Her mother’s voice was firm.

You’ve been running that house like clockwork for ten years, and you’ve never been afraid to get your hands dirty. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of working in an office, because you shouldn’t be.”

There it was again. Another person who believed she was super woman Had she been incredibly successful at deceiving people into thinking she could do anything? Or, and this had to be wrong, did they actually believe that she could do anything? What a pity Michael hadn’t felt

the same.

Jo leaned weakly against the bath, ignoring the freezing tiles hard against her knees. She felt cold in just a T-shirt and knickers, but when the nausea hit her, she hadn’t time to grab her dressing-gown. She barely had time to reach the bathroom before she retched.

She knelt by the toilet in exhaustion as the spasms in her stomach ceased. Maybe if she breathed deeply, she could calm the nausea with relaxing breaths. But even deep breathing felt too strenuous Instead, she just stayed where she was, closed her eyes and wished she could crawl back, to bed until she felt better.

Bed always seemed more appealing when you couldn’t sleep late. This morning, the soft sky-blue sheets and cosy duvet were positively irresistible, simply because she had to leave them.

Rhona was already halfway to France, complete with the car, kids and enough books to last for three glorious weeks travelling around the Loire Valley. Jo had to edit the August edition of Style on her own. Usually, she loved the challenge of doing two jobs at once, planning the magazine and setting up fashion shoots in between chasing up articles and dealing with endless phone calls. Inevitably someone forgot to get a photo of this new designer or that TV chat show host at home, and the entire office would collapse into panic before Jo took charge and sorted whatever mini-disaster out.

Today she felt incapable of organising her underwear drawer, never mind Ireland’s biggest-selling glossy magazine. It was ten past eight, she realised tiredly. Time to have breakfast.

The very thought of eating made her feel ill.

She closed her eyes for a couple of blissful minutes, and steeled herself to get up and face the day.

Why did something so utterly wonderful as having a baby include one of the most horrible side effects imaginable? And why did she have to be one of the fifty per cent of expectant mothers who suffered from it? She hated the other fifty per cent.

Jo had read all about hormonal surges and gastric juices ganging up on you to make you sick as a pig. But the paragraph about overcoming morning sickness in her ancient edition of Everywoman had been the last straw.

Reading that having a small carbohydrate-rich breakfast ‘… brought to the wife by the husband as soon as possible after waking …” had made her feel even sicker, if that was possible. What she wouldn’t have given to have Richard hovering over her in the morning, bringing sweet tea and sympathy along with toast and marmalade. Stop moping, Ryan, and get on with it.

She got up off the bathroom floor and washed her teeth.

Her face was still deathly pale and she looked tired and drawn. Who cares, she said aloud. Nobody’s going to be looking at me today. They’ll just have to put up with a pale and interesting fashion editor for once.

It was only when Jo was gingerly sipping a cup of coffee that she remembered the lunchtime fashion show, a preview of the Autumn and Winter range from one of the country’s most famous and expensive designers.

Jo had been invited weeks ago and would have to turn up, nausea or no nausea. It was going to be a glamorous, highprofile affair with every fashion editor in the country on full make-up alert, wearing the most expensive outfits from their wardrobes. An A-list fashion show, definitely. Designer Maxine was showing her collection in Stark’s, a chic and overpriced restaurant where the price of one bottle of good wine would feed a family of five for a week.

Not that any of the fashion pack would actually eat very much. Eating and being a fashion journalist were mutually exclusive you couldn’t do

both. Everyone would just pick at their food. Jo nibbled the corner of a piece of cream cracker wearily.

Why did the show have to be today? Instead of slopping into the office in a sweatshirt and comfortable jeans, she’d have to dress up and, for once, she just didn’t have the energy for it.

Damn, damn, damn, she muttered. She opened the wardrobe and stared at the crammed rails of clothes. She plucked a fitted red jacket from the middle of the rail and held it up to herself. Too bright, she decided, jamming it back into the wardrobe.

She mulled over a clinging navy shift dress with a matching short jacket. With the right sunglasses and pearls, it looked very Jackie O. But Jo wasn’t in a Jackie O mood. She looked more like Jack Charlton.

It would have to be the hand-painted silk dress she’d got in the Design Centre. Pale gold with rich, burnt umber brush strokes the clinging dress always made her look like something from a medieval tapestry with her hair falling in curls around her bare shoulders. Perfect.

But it wasn’t. Instead of highlighting her curves, the dress simply highlighted her Kelly. Flat just the week before, it had turned into a little mound overnight and the gold dress stretched across it unbecomingly.

The grey pinstripe trouser suit was just as bad. The ultra expensive black lycra dress, which was guaranteed to vacuum pack even the flabbiest tummy, was even worse. She wasn’t in the mood to wear the navy crepe trousers and matching mandarin shirt, even if it was loose enough to look good.

Baby, what am I going to do with you? Jo asked her bump.

Poor Mummy can’t go to Maxine’s fashion show looking like a bag lady. What am I going to wear? You’re going to have to get used to being asked this question, you know.

She stroked her belly softly, sure that the baby was listening to every word. You’re going to be the most fashion-conscious baby the world has ever known, all right, darling?

If only Rhona wasn’t on holidays. Jo could have rung up and asked if she could take the day off. And just blobbed around all day, watching

the afternoon soaps and drinking tea. Instead, she had to find some bloody thing which would fit her and look nice.

An hour later, she strode into the office looking as if she’d just spent the morning having the works done at the beauty parlour. Her glossy dark hair was coiled into an elegant knot held in place with tortoiseshell pins. She wore a slim-fitting navy jacket unbuttoned over a biscuit-coloured silk dress.

Sheer tights and beige high-heeled mules completed the effect. Jo looked marvelous. Nobody would notice that her open jacket hid a softly rounded stomach.

Thank God you’re here,” gushed Emma Lynch, who rushed into Rhona’s office just moments after Jo had arrived and put her briefcase down on the editor’s desk.

“Why? What’s happened?” Jo didn’t look up as she opened the briefcase, and took out her diary and a computer disk. She couldn’t stand Emma but she had to keep it to herself.

A twenty-six-year-old rich girl with delusions of brilliance and a penchant for tantrums, Emma was one of the most irritating people Jo had ever met. Unfortunately, she was also the publisher’s niece and had recently been appointed to the position of junior features writer, despite her inability to write an entire paragraph without a grammatical error.

No talent and good connections make a winning combination, Rhona said drily. She had agreed to take Emma on for two years when she’d finished her one year public relations course. Everyone else had regretted it ever since.

Emma’s job was to rewrite press releases, get quotes from celebrities about their beauty hints and do general dogs body work. Naturally, this wasn’t good enough for Emma.

She moaned about not getting anything enjoyable to write and had started wheedling her uncle for promotion. She wanted to do ‘proper’ interviews, she’d been telling anyone who’d listen. Not just rewrite boring press releases or answer the phones. But something juicy. Today she’d found just what she was looking for.

“You won’t believe what’s happened!” Emma said dramatically.

She said everything dramatically. It drove Jo mad. “Poor Mary has got the most awful flu and can’t go to London to do that interview with Helen Mirren. She rang in earlier and, because you weren’t here, I took the liberty of ringing Uncle Mark and asking him what he thought..”

Emma smiled a self-satisfied little smile.

“Well, to see if he thought I should go, actually. Because we couldn’t keep them waiting just because you weren’t in …”

“Hold on a minute, Emma,” Jo interrupted coolly.

“When did Mary ring in?”

“At ten past nine, and …”

Jo interrupted again.

“And what time was Mary’s interview scheduled?” “Half six in the Mayfair.”

“This evening?”

“Yes, but the flight was booked and everything …”

“Emma, why did you decide to ring Mark with something like this when you knew I was going to be in this morning, and when you also knew we had plenty of time to get someone else to interview Helen Mirren? Can you tell me that?” Jo’s tone was sharp.

Normally she was able to ignore Emma’s manipulative behaviour and constant running to “Uncle Mark’, but not today.

“Well, I just thought it would be …” stuttered Emma, going an ugly shade of pink.

“Better if you went, Emma? Or better to organise something without consulting me?”

Jo sat down in Rhona’s big swivel chair and steepled her hands in front of her. She knew exactly what Emma had been up to. She’d made Jo look bad in front of Mark Denton, Style’s publisher, and netted a major interview for herself into the bargain.

Denton was a man famous for his lack of patience and his business skills, in that order. He was also unaccountably fond of his niece.

“I thought it would be helpful if I went.” Emma sniffed. Jo eyed her

warily, realising that the younger woman was ready to go into tantrum overdrive. Big mistake, Emma, she!

thought. “Shut the door, Emma, and sit down,” Jo commanded.

Startled, Emma obeyed.

“Now you listen to me. Don’t you dare go over my head ever again, do you understand? I’m the deputy editor and when Rhona is away, I’m acting editor. I will not stand for some little madam trying to tell me how to run this magazine, do you understand?” Jo hissed.

“If you want to learn anything, you’ve got to work with me, not against me, Emma. You got this job because of who you are, but if you ever want to get any job on merit,” she yelled, ‘you’d better stop playing games and learn. And that means taking orders. You’re not going to London for that interview.”

Emma was openmouthed with shock, but Jo didn’t stop.

“I’m rescheduling the interview so Mary can do it. You haven’t the experience for this type of interview. Now cancel those plane tickets.”

With that, Jo picked up the phone and dialled Mary’s number.

“You can’t do that, I’ve got it all arranged!” shrieked Emma.

“I can and I will,” answered Jo icily.

“I presume you have some work to do, so do it!”

Emma flounced out of the room, slamming the door childishly. Straight off to ring Uncle Mark, no doubt, Jo thought wearily. With a great start to the morning.

She’d just finished talking to Helen Mirren’s publicity consultant when Annette, the receptionist, came in with a cup of tea and a message from Mark Denton.

“He’s in the car and wants you to ring him back pronto said Annette.

“I’m sure you can guess what it’s about. I heard that little bitch phoning him as soon as she left your office.”

That girl will be the death of me,” Jo said.

“Pity she couldn’t be the death of herself Annette said.

Jo waited until she’d drunk most of her tea before phoning the boss. She’d need every spare ounce of self-control not to scream back at him