Woman to Woman (48 page)

Thirty-five minutes later, Steph and Carol reclined gracefully on a leopards king chaise-longue, looking as if they had been born in floor-length satin. With their hair beautifully styled, flawless make-up on their faces and perfect size-ten bodies encased in sleek designer clothes, they appeared a million miles away from the two casually dressed young women who’d rushed into the studio earlier.

Jo had been involved in the fashion business for years, yet she never ceased to be amazed at how a team of experts, with the right tools and lighting, could turn a pretty woman into a spectacular one.

Nobody looking at the finished photos would ever be able to tell that Carol had a spot on her chin and dark circles under her eyes or that Stephanie’s hair had been slicked back into a knot because the hairdresser hadn’t the time to wash it.

Turn your head a little to the left, Carol.” ordered Ralph, squinting at the models through his viewfinder.

“A little more, that’s good. Alan, fix her hair, there’s a bit

sticking out. “Jo tried to relax while Ralph was shooting. She sat down in the leather armchair he often used as a prop, put her feet up on the arms and poked around in a pot of strawberry yogurt with a little plastic spoon. Frederick was up and down from his seat like a jack-in-the-box, powdering away the shiny faces brought on by strong lights.

“We’ll never be out in time,” Frederick grumbled, sinking back into his chair after the tenth powdering break.

“I’ll kill Stephanie if we aren’t. I’m due somewhere at half three.”

“And I’m due in four months if I don’t have a nervous breakdown first Jo answered glumly.

“It’s not that bad, pet, is it?” asked Frederick in concern.

“You look wonderful and I thought everything was going so well. It’s not Richard, is it? That pig, I don’t know why you stuck with him for so long, he wasn’t worth it.”

Ralph bellowed and Frederick leaped up with his powder puff at the ready.

Richard? thought Jo. She couldn’t give a damn about Richard. He’d dumped another pregnant girlfriend before her and she’d lost every ounce of respect or love for him. He’d only phoned once in the past few months a faltering message left on her answering machine.

“It’s me, er … Richard. You’re not here and I’ll,” he paused, “ring you some other time. Hope you’re all right he added awkwardly.

Hope you’re all right? Snarled Jo when she got home. What sort of a greeting was that to the mother of your child? she wanted to know. His lack of interest only hardened her heart even more against him.

When she went to the hospital on her own for her check-ups and sat, tears flowing down her face as she looked at the ultrasound picture of the baby, Jo felt immeasurably sad that she had no one to share the experience with. But she never regretted the fact that Richard wasn’t with her. She couldn’t imagine anyone worse as a father or would-be father.

She and the baby were better without him. Now, when she thought about

him at all, it was with a mixture of irritation and disgust. Irritation at his childishness and immaturity, and disgust that she’d been so stupid not to see through his lies and recognise him for the coward he truly was.

“Do you want another cup of tea?” Frederick asked kindly, perching on the edge of the armchair. Seeing Jo’s look of misery, he took her hand.

“He’s not worth it, pet,” he said, misinterpreting her sad face.

“Forget Richard, for your own sake. I didn’t mean to tell you this,” he hesitated, ‘but you better know.”

Jo sat up straighten What news of Richard did Frederick have?

“I’ve seen him out with that Freeman girl, the tarty one with the little red Mazda and the vacuum in her skull,” Frederick continued.

Jo knew exactly who he was talking about. Rachel Freeman, a twenty something model who’d materialised beside Richard at several parties, smiling at him coyly and completely ignoring the fact that Jo was holding his hand.

“She’s just a kid,” he’d said to Jo, adding that he preferred mature, beautiful women to silly youngsters. His words had rung true at the time and she had believed him, foolishly, as it now turned out.

Had Richard been having a fling with the gormless Rachel all along? Had the last laugh been at her expense? Probably.

She felt inexplicably tired all of a sudden.

“She was practically glued to him at the hip, all kissykissy and holding hands,” Frederick divulged, outrage popping out of him.

“You’d think they were Siamese twins. So just forget him, Jo. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Anyway,” he continued, with a smirk, “I happen to know that one captain of industry is very smitten with you, so you won’t be on your own for very long.”

Jo tried to smile but she couldn’t manage it. If only you knew, Frederick, she thought. With my record for choosing men, I should start writing to a death row prisoner in America so I can fall in love with him.

“Phone,” yelled Ralph’s assistant from the studio’s darkroom.

“Call for Jo Ryan.”

The Louisiana Penitentiary, no doubt, with a list of fanciable prisoners,” she muttered, hoisting herself out of the seat.

“Jo,” said Rhona, sounding relieved.

“I thought nobody would ever answer the bloody phone.”

That’s because Ralph is attempting to blow all our eardrums as well as his own with ten billion classic rock tracks.

It’s a miracle anybody answered at all. What’s up?” she added, leaning against a counter top covered with contact sheets of tiny photos.

“Mark was looking for you,” replied Rhona in a softer voice.

“I can’t really talk too loudly because my office door isn’t shut, but he arrived this morning looking like a thundercloud.”

“So?”

“So, he’d got back late on Sunday and must have got an earful from dear sister Denise about her poor little Emmy Wemmy having a spot of bother at work.”

“Surprise, surprise said Jo sarcastically.

“Has he advertised my job yet?”

“No,” hissed Rhona, listen. He demanded a meeting with me and wanted to know everything that had gone on last week. I told him everything up straight and I said that it was virtually impossible to see how Emma had a future with the magazine since she’s so incredibly hostile and unprofessional to my staff, especially my deputy editor.”

Thank you, Rhona,” said Jo, suddenly tearful. The way she felt right now, she’d blub at the slightest hint of sympathy.

“Well, it’s true stated Rhona.

“You’re a fantastic deputy, a great fashion editor and a real pro. Not to mention a great friend. But our friendship isn’t the point. The point is my editorial control or the lack of it when it comes to staff she added.

“I wanted Mark to know that we wouldn’t take that kind of crap from any other junior and Emma has been trading on that fact. And I said that her personal attack on you was vitriolic in the extreme.”

“What did he say to that?” asked Jo quietly.

“He didn’t say anything, actually, but the look on his face was enough. I’d bet next month’s salary on darling Emma getting an earful.”

“Well, what was the outcome? What did he say at the end?”

Jo desperately wanted to know what Mark thought of her, whether he believed Emma’s side of the story or Rhona’s.

“He said he wanted a meeting with me at four and that he wanted to talk to you first.”

“Huh. To tell me poor Emma is his flesh and blood and that I can take a hike.” Jo knew she sounded bitter.

“I better go.

We’ve still got three more outfits to go. We’ll be lucky to be finished by half two.”

“Are you coming back to the office?” Rhona asked.

“I don’t know Jo said sharply.

“I’ve got to get groceries and I have to buy some trousers because nothing fits me very well right now so I probably won’t come in today.” Or tomorrow.

She didn’t want to come in all week if it meant she could avoid Mark.

“Mark wanted to phone you after we talked, but I knew you were upset and I said I’d try and track you down,” Rhona explained.

“I didn’t want you to fly off the handle with him.

You should come in to the office after the shoot. He’ll be here.”

“I might. Thanks for standing up for me, Rho,” Jo said.

“Bye.”

“Jo, don’t go yet. You sound upset.”

Damnit, where had she hidden those bloody tissues? Jo looked wildly around the office, searching for a tissue in the midst of bits of paper, contact sheets, negatives and newspapers.

“I’m sorry, Rhona,” she muttered, wiping her eyes on the sleeve of her sweater.

“I have to go. Really.”

It was three by the time Jo finally left the studio, with Frederick walking beside her, arms full of plastic-wrapped dresses. He was bringing them back to the safety of the office because Jo had decided to go shopping and didn’t want to leave hundreds of pounds’ worth of borrowed clothes in the car at the supermarket.

“Brenda knows what has to go where she said, as she put two shoe boxes into Frederick’s car. He stowed the dresses carefully on the back seat.

“I’m sorry to leave you with all this, I know you’re in a rush.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t mind being a little bit late and you look as if you need a bit of time to yourself. Take care.” He reached out and threw his arms around Jo, giving her a warm hug.

“Listen to Uncle Frederick, go home and go to bed. Or read a trashy novel and eats lots of ice cream.”

Jo sniffed.

“I will. Thanks for being so good, Frederick.”

Mothercare was jammed. It took several trying-on sessions to find a pair of trousers she liked. She’d been hoping she wouldn’t have to buy too many maternity clothes but it seemed that trousers were one thing you couldn’t econo mise on.

She bought one black and one grey pair of trousers and three pairs of maternity tights. Worn with over shirts or jumpers, they ought to see her through the next few months.

Her answering machine’s message light was winking at her when she got home. Had Mark phoned her? Rhona had left two messages asking her to ring the office.

“Mark wants to talk to you Rhona said the first time. Then, “Please ring. He’s driving me mad.”

“Let him phone, then said Jo crossly. Had his dialling finger seized up suddenly? Or wasn’t he able to make a simple phone call unless his secretary did it for him? She unpacked the shopping and sank down onto the settee with the TV remote control.

When the phone finally rang at half seven, she was in the bath, relaxing in a cocoon of aroma therapy bubbles with a face mask on. Even if she’d wanted to answer it, she wouldn’t have got out of the bath in time.

She sank back into the bubbles feeling cross.

She sat in the bath for another two minutes, then, consumed with curiosity to see who’d phoned, she got out and headed for the answering machine, wrapped up in a towel, rivulets of water dripping onto the carpet.

, Mark’s voice was formal.

“I’m going to a charity dinner in the Shelbourne at eight so call me back on the mobile before then.”

The barefaced cheek of him! Hell would freeze over before she’d bother phoning him. She pressed the delete button with venom and stormed back into the bathroom to remove the face mask.

After another restless night, Jo rang the office first thing.

“Annette, tell Rhona I’m not feeling well and I won’t be in today she told the receptionist.

“Oh you poor dear, what’s wrong?” asked Annette anxiously.

Hating herself for lying, Jo muttered that she was feeling very tired.

“I think I’ll spend the day in bed,” she added. Tell Rhona not to bother ringing me unless it’s urgent and then I’ll have the answering machine on. I need some sleep.”

“Don’t worry, Jo. I won’t let anyone disturb you on pain of death.”

Does that apply to the boss? Jo wondered. Could she add ‘pain and torture’ to the prescription?

She spent a boring morning sorting out her wardrobe, Gareth O’Callaghan’s mellifluous tones in the background.

She tried on lots of things to see if they could accommodate her swelling belly, and was dismayed to see how few things actually did. I’ll probably never get into any of this stuff again, she realised miserably, as she looked at all the beautiful slim-fitting outfits she couldn’t even button up.

She loved that grey wool pinstripe. It would be awful not to be able to wear that ever again. And the black leather miniskirt. She’d bought it with one of her first freelance cheques and worn it almost to death for a year. It was in pretty good condition considering. She’d hate not to fit into it again.

Nibbling a Ryvita to keep the Hobnob pangs at bay, she stashed everything she couldn’t wear in the left side of her wardrobe and arranged the rest on the right. The few items hanging in the wearable side of the wardrobe made her even more depressed.

The phone rang twice but the caller hung up abruptly when the answering machine answered. It must be her mother, Jo thought, she hated answering machines. When the doorbell rang loudly half an hour after the last hang-up, Jo peered out of her peephole. It was Mark.

Blast. She leaned up against the door, wondering whether he’d heard her stomping into the hall. He rang the bell again.

Obviously he had.

She stood silently, hoping he’d go away. No such luck.

“Jo, it’s Mark.”

Double blast.

“I was worried when you rang in sick today. Can I come in?”

She toyed with a whole range of answers.

“No.”

“No, you pig.”

“Not until Hell freezes over.”

“Jo. Please let me in. I know you’re there.”

She wrenched the door open.

“Yes?” she said icily.

“Can I come in?” he asked, grey eyes serious as they stared down at her brown ones.

“Why do you want to come in? Can’t you sack me in the office like normal despots? Or do you like the personal touch?”

“For God’s sake, Jo,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“Let me in, won’t you?”

“Five minutes,” she announced. She stood back to let him enter. He walked in, looking strangely out of place in his navy pinstripe suit, blue shirt and yellow tie. His hair was rumpled and so was his face.