Woman to Woman (39 page)

She’d never forgotten one of her first interviews when she’d been so badly prepared that she’d innocently asked an actress what it was like working with a theatre director rumoured to be very bad-tempered.

“It’s not so bad working with him since he’s my husband?.”

snapped the actress before storming off.

Jo unlocked the front door of the Georgian building that the magazine shared with another business and went up the two flights of stairs to the Style office.

The cream panelled door was open and Jo went in, expecting to see Mark in the conference room on the phone.

He was, however, sitting at Brenda’s desk, flicking through the dummy for the October edition of the magazine, one shoulder jamming Brenda’s phone up against his ear.

“Hello, Jo, I didn’t think I’d see anyone in here today,” he said warmly.

“I forgot some papers for an interview on Monday she replied, hurrying over to her desk and cursing herself for being found wearing a tracksuit and ancient runners. She hadn’t a scrap of make-up on except a bit of pale lipstick and her face was probably shiny with moisturiser.

“Who are you interviewing?” he asked. Jo was about to tell him when he spoke into the phone.

“Hello, Tim. No, that’s OK. I wasn’t holding for long.”

While he talked, Jo rooted around among the various press releases, magazines and colour transparencies on her desk and found the shiny, coiled-up fax paper.

Sliding the pages into her handbag, she walked past Mark, waving silently as she made for the door.

“Hold on, Tim,” he said suddenly.

“Don’t go yet, Jo, will you?

I’ll only be on the phone for a few minutes.”

There was nothing she could do but wait. Well, she may as well take the weight off her feet. She returned to her desk and decided to phone Aisling again. Nobody had answered when she rang earlier that morning and Jo was worried about her after her horrific experience at the hands of that bastard of a lawyer. Jo could think of a few things she’d like to do to Mr. Murphy and none of them would be legal. What a pig. The phone kept ringing in the Morans’. Nobody answered. Of course, the boys have Saturday morning soccer and Aisling is probably picking them up, Jo remembered. She’d try again later.

Mark was still on the phone.

She didn’t want to sit there waiting for him to come off the phone, so she tried to look engrossed in her diary and wondered what he wanted. It was nearly two months since they’d returned from New York and in the intervening time he’d been courteous, charming and kind to her.

He’d taken her outburst about being pregnant in his stride, hugging her in a brotherly fashion when she’d broken down in Bloomingdale’s. He’d brought her to a nearby coffee shop, ordered steaming hot chocolate for

her and held her hand until she stopped crying. At no point had he pushed her for information. He listened calmly and intently while she mumbled about the baby and how Richard had left her.

“I’m glad you told me, Jo.” he said later that evening, when she met him in the hotel lobby feeling mortally embarrassed for her earlier behaviour.

“If you need any help, you can count on me. We’re like a big family in Style and I want you to know that I’ll do anything I can to help,” he emphasised.

They had dinner in the hotel that night and Jo wondered if she’d imagined the charged atmosphere between them during the previous days. Now, he treated her like a favourite sister who’d just been ill, asked her was she too hot, too cold, did she want more water or would she like some orange juice. For all his bachelorhood, Mark obviously knew a lot about pregnancy because he scanned the menu like an experienced dad, vetoing anything with soft cheeses, pate or alcohol in it.

“You can’t be too careful he said, ordering mineral water for them both because he said it would do him good to abstain from wine during dinner.

Jo found this brotherly concern comforting and unflattering at the same time. It was lovely to be pampered and she felt sure that, had Mark been the baby’s dad, he’d have ordered her to lie down and put her feet up as soon as he heard she was pregnant.

But it was a little disconcerting to be transformed from sexy colleague into sexless mum-to-be.

Just because I’m having a baby doesn’t mean I’m not a sexual human being, she wanted to say. I’m not a one-dimensional creature who’s desirable until she gets pregnant and then becomes every man’s mother sexless. Of course, she didn’t say any such thing. Mark might be disgusted to find that she was even thinking about fancying him when she was pregnant with Richard’s child.

For the past two months, every time he rang the office, he asked to be put through to Jo and asked her how she was feeling, how the baby was doing, and to tell her that if she needed time off, to take it.

“You’ve got to look after yourself he said, almost paternally.

She didn’t know if he did this because he thought nobody else in the office knew she was pregnant and boyfriend-less, and therefore wanted to be discreet. Or if he thought he should ask about her health because she was an employee and he was merely following some sort of management protocol. But she was getting used to those conversations and found him much easier to talk to on the phone than she did in real life.

He made her chuckle and displayed a surprising knowledge of what really went on in the office by asking whether Brenda was actually working or ringing her current amour, when Brenda was sitting opposite Jo at the time and obviously listening in on the conversation with interest.

In person, however, Jo found herself avoiding Mark. She felt embarrassed by the way she’d flirted with him in New York.

At least she hadn’t thrown herself at him, that was her one consolation.

She was still lost in contemplating their changed relationship when he put down the phone.

“How are you today, Jo?” he asked.

“Is the baby still trying to kick his way out?”

She laughed, because that was exactly what it had felt like over the past few weeks. At first, she’d felt tiny movements inside her, something that left her thrilled and utterly amazed.

Now, the baby was getting quite energetic and was kicking around like an embryonic Cantona.

“She is very active,” she corrected him with a grin. Although she didn’t want to know what sex the baby was, Jo felt it in her bones that she was carrying a little girl.

“A female soccer player, then,” he grinned, coming over to stand beside her with his hands in the pockets of the jeans he wore with a casual navy cotton shirt.

“Does she kick all the time?”

“No. But she moves around a lot except when she’s sleeping.”

Jo stroked her bump lovingly and was disconcerted to look up and find Mark looking at her intently, his grey eyes tender and affectionate.

“I’d love to feel her kick he said hesitantly.

“Would you mind…”

“No.” replied Jo, astonished.

He placed one large hand gently on her bump, strong fingers spread sensitively as he tried to feel the baby’s movements. They stayed like that for a few minutes and Jo wondered what this curious tableau would look like if any other member of staff happened to arrive unexpectedly.

She could smell Mark’s aftershave, a spicy lemon scent she always associated with him. She could recognise most perfumes and aftershaves if she’d smelled them before, but she wasn’t sure what type of aftershave Mark used. Maybe it was because the scent mingled with his own particular smell, a mix of just-washed hair, shaving gel, fabric conditioner from his shirt and the warm smell of healthy male.

She felt a sudden dart in her belly as the baby moved to the left, sending gentle ripples around her womb.

“I felt it! Did you feel it?” Mark said in awe.

“Stupid of me, of course you felt it. Wasn’t it wonderful?”

As if delighted with this new audience, the baby wriggled again. Mark’s face was a picture, Jo thought. His eyes were alight with amazement at feeling the baby move inside her.

“It’s wonderful, a miracle he said finally, slowly moving his hand away from her.

Jo smiled back at him, embarrassment and uncomfortable scenes forgotten.

“You really are blooming Mark said, eyes taking in her flushed cheeks, glossy hair and the sparkle in her dark eyes.

Tell me, Mum-to-Be, do you fancy a spot of lunch or are you doing something this afternoon?”

“Actually, I’m going house-hunting today she said, ‘but I can’t call around anywhere until at least half two. I was going to go swimming in Stillorgan and then head out to Killiney to see the first place.”

“Why don’t you go swimming and then let me bring you for a quick lunch. I’ll drive you around for the afternoon he offered.

“Go on, it’ll be fun. I love looking at houses.”

“OK. You’re on.”

Tired after her swim, Jo decided it was a great idea to let Mark drive her around for the afternoon, especially since she’d decided to visit the house in the Dublin mountains and her knowledge of anything further out than Sandyford was decidedly sketchy.

After soup and a sandwich in a pub in Stillorgan, they set off in Mark’s Porsche. Jo relaxed back into the low leather seat.

The first house was crammed with viewers. Cars were parked for three hundred yards each side of the house and a stream of people stood trying to get in the front door.

They can’t all be thinking of buying this place, surely?”

demanded Mark, trying to make a space for Jo to squeeze into the sitting room.

“It’s the latest hobby she explained, ‘and it’s more fun than wandering up and down Woodie’s. People just turn up to see what other people’s houses are like.”

It was hard to get any idea of what the house was like, it was so full. They left soon after arriving. Next stop was an elegant two-storey Victorian residence in Greystones which was slightly beyond Jo’s budget, but she’d decided to view it anyway. Obviously fewer people were prepared to trek out to Greystones from the city to indulge in their Sunday hobby.

There were only five cars parked outside the house.

This looks more like it,” said Mark, unfolding long limbs from the driver’s seat. They gazed at the grey facade, large sash windows and fantastic harbour view.

Inside, the house was beautifully decorated and perfectly kept, yet it was so austere and cold that Jo disliked it immediately. She hated the formal sitting room with the black fireplace and the ornate cornices and she liked the long, narrow kitchen even less.

“I don’t know what it is,” she leaned against Mark to whisper, ‘but I don’t like this place. It’s just so … cold.”

“It is, isn’t it,” he agreed.

“Let’s go.”

The sun was shining as they drove towards Stepaside, the Porsche’s engine growling like a big cat with a hoarse throat.

“I wish my car sounded like this Jo said, thinking of the strange wheezing noise the Golf had been making recently whenever it went beyond thirty miles an hour.

“How old is it?” Mark asked, as he made a right turn up a steep hill surrounded by high hedges.

Too old,” she replied.

“I need to get a new car, but I need a new house more.”

“Actually, I did wonder why you were house-hunting,” he remarked. -“I thought you’d only bought your apartment a couple of years ago and it was new, if I recall correctly.”

“It was,” she admitted.

“It’s just that the walls are so thin, I don’t know how it’s going to work out when I have the baby.

My next-door neighbour is a little old lady who gets up at half seven and goes to bed after the news at nine, so I don’t know if she’s going to be too happy listening to a crying baby half the night. She’s terribly sweet,” Jo added, ‘but she won’t be able for all-night crying, I just know it.” Jo sighed.

“Mind you, I’m not sure I’m ready for that either.”

Mark chuckled.

“Some place up the mountains is perfect then,” he said with a grin.

“You can throw rock-‘n’-roll parties, let the baby cry all night and nobody can complain!”

“I’d been thinking more of having extra space for the baby and starting a herb garden sniffed Jo, mildly insulted.

“I’m teasing you Mark said gently.

“Now, where is this place? Give me the brochure.”

Fifteen minutes later, after driving down several winding roads which they were sure were dead-ends, they arrived at Redwood Lane. It was a small tree-lined country lane with very few gateways. There were no cars parked outside number two, which wasn’t surprising Jo thought, when they finally saw the place. A low granite cottage with a jungle for a front garden, dirty grey paint flaking off the woodwork around the leaded windows and a roof with more slates off than on, it was not your average estate agent’s dream. It wasn’t anybody’s dream, thought Jo, wondering why she liked it so much. Was she out of her head to even consider buying it?

She gingerly picked her way along a path overgrown with nettles and dandelions with Mark following.

“Did the brochure mention that this place needs a total rehaul?” he asked incredulously.

“Er, yes,” Jo replied. She knocked on the front door, ignoring the peeling grey paint.

“Come in, come in,” said a loud voice.

“I thought you’d be late because it’s so hard to find.”

Jo pushed the door open and went inside.

A tiny hall opened out onto a large kitchen on the left side and a sitting room on the right. The kitchen stretched right to the back of the house. A large leaded window gave a somewhat grimy view of the countryside beyond.

“I’m Margaret Middleton announced the large auburnhaired lady, getting up off a slightly dusty chair to greet them.

“Jo Ryan. We talked on the phone Jo replied.

“Do you want me to show you the house or would you prefer to look around on your own?” inquired Mrs. Middleton.

“We’ll look on our own,” Jo said firmly.

“Off you go, then. But watch those stairs, they’re very steep,” the estate agent warned.

The wooden staircase at the far left side of the room did look very steep and led up to what had to be some sort of loft conversion. A huge old cream range took up most of one wall.