Woman to Woman (58 page)

There’s a nice velvet thing I wore when I was having Susie.”

“Can I try it on?” asked Susie. She looked up from the basket of lipsticks she’d taken off the dressing table.

“No darling. It’s for big people only.”

“Really big people said Jo when she saw it. On the hanger, the long-sleeved empire-line dress in midnight blue looked big enough to fit Rhona and Jo together.

But when Jo put it on, she found that it was amazingly ( flattering. The high waist drew the eye to her cleavage so that you didn’t notice her huge bump, while the long, tapered sleeves gave it a faintly medieval air.

“Perfect!” Rhona said, looking at her deputy editor through narrowed eyes.

“Purfect, purfect!” sang Susie, admiring the broad pink smile and bright red eyebrows she’d drawn on herself with lipstick.

“If Susie does your make-up, you’ll look stunning added Rhona gravely.

Thank you, Rho.” Jo said suddenly.

“Thank you for this and for what you’ve done for Mark and me.”

“Well, I knew that if I didn’t do something, the pair of you would never sort things out. Of course, this means I have to sit up at the top of the church for the wedding and I get to wear an enormously mad hat.”

“Anything you want replied Jo with a large grin. She sat down on the bed.

“Come on, Susie, put on my lipstick! “

The answering machine switched on seconds before Aisling reached the phone. She’d only had the machine for a month and she still found herself racing out of the shower or hurrying from the depths of the settee when the phone rang, having forgotten that people could leave messages. She decided to wait to see who was calling before she picked up the phone and carried the groceries over to the fridge and began to unpack what felt like a ton of cat food and an equal weight of the from age frais that the boys were currently eating by the bucket load

“This is Carla De Paor,” said the caller, in a high, rather posh accent.

“I’m phoning to see if you can cater for a party before Christmas. Do give me a ring if you can help. My number is …”

“Hello, Ms De Paor,” said Aisling, snatching up the phone and turning the machine off.

“This is Aisling Moran. You want to book Reservations to cater for a party? When is the party?”

“Friday, December thirteenth. For about fifty people. I know it’s terribly short notice, only asking you two weeks before, but my friend Yvonne recommended you so highly. I do hope you can help me the caller added.

Aisling looked at the Cat’s Companion calendar hanging by the phone and did some quick calculations. She had a midweek dinner party for ten that week, her second for Jim and Rachel Coughlan, and a buffet to get organised for the following Saturday, a day after the De Paor party. But the buffet would be very simple and she could always rope someone in to help with the party catering. She’d need to get off work early, of course, but she was owed plenty of time off.

“Yes, I can probably fit you in, Ms De Paor.” she said in the cool, businesslike manner she’d learned to use on the phone.

“A lot depends on how elaborate the party is. What are you planning?”

“Nibbles, a finger buffet really,” the other woman replied.

The party isn’t until nine and it’s not dinner, you know. Just something to have with the booze. Oh you’re so good to take me on,” she gushed.

“My other people said they couldn’t do it at the last minute. If Yvonne hadn’t told me about you, I don’t know what I’d have done!”

“Reservations won’t let you down,” Aisling said firmly.

“Once we’ve taken a client on, we provide a first-class service.”

Unless I get sick, she thought privately, in which case the whole thing falls apart at the seams.

“I’d like to meet you to go over exactly what menu you’d like,” Aisling continued.

“Could you meet me on Monday at one-fifteen in the Harcourt Hotel?”

“Yes, yes, no problem. How will I recognise you?”

I’ll be the one with the bags under my eyes and the rose between my teeth, Aisling thought mischievously. She said, “I’m blonde and I’ll be wearing a navy suit.”

“Marvellous, thank you so much,” said the other woman.

“Ciao.”

Ciao? Did people still say that? Aisling wondered as she hung up. A mental picture of Carla De Paor came to her a cosseted wealthy wife with bobbed burgundy hair, a year round tan from too many hours in the sun and enough gold around her neck to settle Bolivia’s national debt.

Once, that type of woman would have overawed Aisling, made her feel gauche and dowdy. But not any more. In the last few months, she’d met more society types than she’d ever dreamed of as Reservations made a name for itself as a small but exclusive catering business.

She’d learned that the ones with the posh voices and the expensive clothes were just as likely to have grimy kitchen utensils and mice droppings in the saucepan cupboard. And, when she’d changed her clothes in a bedroom of one luxurious mansion in Foxrock, she’d passed the master bedroom and realised that the elegant lady who dressed in

chic clothes and sported French-manicured nails, left the same tangle of tights, discarded outfits and clutter of toiletries on the bed as any woman did. There was no doubt about it, Ireland’s most glamorous people were decidedly unglamorous when you got past the facade. Dealing with the De Paors would be no problem.

Aisling had just unpacked the shopping when the phone rang again. This time she picked it up.

“Hiya, Aisling. How are you, honey?” Sam’s voice hadn’t lost its faint transatlantic twang, a subtle variation on his native accent that made the endearment ‘honey’ sound deliciously sexy.

“I’m fine, Sam. Just been shopping and I’m going out to pick up the boys in half an hour. We’re going to have lunch with my mother.”

“Still on for tonight?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied.

“It’s not every night I get brought to a charity ball, so I’m not going to miss it.”

“Are you finally going to tell me what you’re wearing, or is it still a big secret?” he asked.

Aisling stifled her irritation. Ever since Mark had asked them to accompany himself and Jo to the fund-raising ball for Chinese orphans, Sam had been wheedling away to find out what Aisling was going to wear.

“It’s a surprise,” she said.

“I want to dazzle you.”

“Dazzle!” said Sam suspiciously.

“Yes, dazzle.” Aisling could feel herself getting agitated.

What was the matter with him? Every time he mentioned the ball, he wanted to know what she was wearing, even though she’d told him it was a surprise at least four times. Which word was he having difficulty with, she wondered? Dazzle or surprise?

“I just want to know, that’s all.” Sam sniffed. Nobody could sniff like Sam. Each one was an Oscar winner, laden with meaning.

“Why?” Aisling couldn’t stop herself. She was annoyed by the

implication that she couldn’t pick something suitable for a posh ball in the Shelbourne without his help. She wasn’t some hare-brained bimbo who couldn’t tell a black-tie affair from a beery barbeque in somebody’s back garden. She was a working woman who’d just arranged another booking for her catering business. A business she’d set up thanks to her own cooking skills and entrepreneurial ability. So why the hell was Sam treating her as if she was an imbecile with no clothes sense?

Damn him. He was so square when it came to clothes. Not satisfied with buying her a ludicrously little-girl dress the first time they went out shopping, he’d subsequently surprised her with another maidenly outfit a ruinously expensive white Ghost dress that made her look like a milkmaid. He probably expected her to wear that to the ball. Well, he could forget it.

“I’d love to see you wearing my dress.” He sniffed again.

“You look beautiful in it, so elegant.” There was a pause.

“I’m sorry he added in a low voice.

“It’s childish to want you to wear my present.”

It was Aisling’s turn to sigh. Don’t be so hard on him, she told herself. You’re just out of sync with normal man woman relationships. Most men probably want their girlfriends to wear feminine outfits instead of knock-‘em-dead sexy dresses.

Perfectly normal, wasn’t it? She’d ask Jo, just to be on the safe side.

“I love the white dress you bought me she said. It was only a half-lie. She did like it, but it wasn’t the sort of thing you could wear into the office and it was far too impractical to inspire confidence in her catering clients.

“But I’ve bought a lovely dress for the ball and I want to wear it. You’ll like it when you see it, I just know it.”

He’ll hate it, she thought as she hung up. It was very sexy the complete opposite of the white dress he’d bought. A year ago, she wouldn’t have dreamed of wearing anything like it.

Mind you, a year ago she wouldn’t have fitted into a long oyster-coloured halter-neck dress. Especially one that moulded her body like surgical gloves. Still, Jo said it was going to be a very

over-the-top affair, so Aisling had felt justified blowing two and a half dinner parties’ worth of takings on the dress.

“Hello, Ash.” murmured Jo, walking into the kitchen rubbing her eyes sleepily. Eight months pregnant, Jo was very big and in her to welling dressing-gown worn over a large T-shirt, she looked as if she had a beach-ball tied around her middle.

“Did you sleep?” asked Aisling, pulling out a chair for her.

“Not really. I keep having to pee all night and she’s kicking like mad Jo sighed.

“I’ll make you a nice cup of tea and some toast offered Aisling, ‘and you can sit inside and watch telly.”

Thank you. What would I do without you, Ash?” Jo asked.

“You’d get out more Aisling replied, filling the kettle.

“I’m afraid the boys will soon think you’re their mother. You’re here more often than I am “I don’t mind babysitting at all. I love being with them.

Anyway, when you’re building up a business you’ve got to accept lots of work, at least that’s what Richard always told me she added drily.

“It’ll be easier when you’ve got someone to help full time.”

Aisling put brown bread into the toaster and placed a tray with Flora, marmalade, milk and sugar on it on the table in front of Jo.

“I’ll need to hire someone sooner rather than later she said.

“I’ve just got another job, a party for fifty on Friday week. For an awfully jolly-hockey-sticks-sounding woman called Carla De Paor.”

“Well done. That name’s familiar, though.” Jo said thoughtfully.

“Aren’t they the ones with the huge pile in Greystones and the garage business?”

“Don’t know said Aisling, making the tea. The only problem is that Sam will go ballistic when I tell him because Michael was taking the boys that Friday night and Sam and I were going to drive to Wexford and spend the night in a hotel somewhere.”

“You can do that another time Jo pointed out.

“You’ve got to make as many contacts as you can now to get yourself established.”

Aisling looked out of the kitchen window at the bird-table where a tiny robin daintily pecked at the nuts she’d put out earlier. It was a freezing November day, the last vestiges of frost still sparkled in the pale wintry sun.

“I know she said slowly.

“But Sam doesn’t seem to understand that. He knew what I wanted to do when we met, but now he really seems to hate me working at night. I don’t know why.”

“I’m afraid that’s a typical male reaction Jo said.

“Independence is wonderful, an attractive quality in fact. Like wearing sexy clothes, miniskirts or low-cut blouses. Until you become an item. Then, it’s “don’t go out wearing that dress, cover up your boobs, your legs, whatever, and turn into Little Miss Stay at Home.”

“You said it muttered Aisling, thinking of Sam’s fascination with her wardrobe.

“Mark isn’t like that, is he?”

“No. Not at all. I think it must be because he’s so confident and secure in himself Jo took her toast out of the toaster and plastered it with Flora.

“He loves the fact that I’ve made my own way in the world. But not all men are like that she added, licking a piece of margarine off her fingers.

“Why do I get stuck with the ones who want to turn me into the bloody housewife from hell?” demanded Aisling.

“Come on, Ash, give him a chance begged Jo.

“He’s probably trying to protect you. He can see that you’re stretching yourself by doing two jobs as well as looking after Paul and Phillip,” “You’re right. It’s just that…” she paused.

“What?” asked Jo through a mouth full of toast.

“I’m beginning to feel claustrophobic Aisling said finally.

There. She’d said it, actually said what had been rattling around in her head for the past two weeks.

In the three months since she’d met Sam, she’d had a marvelous time. Most of the time. Nearly all the time, really.

He was a handsome, attentive lover and that had doubled her

confidence, made her feel happy, relaxed and as secure as a recently separated woman could be.

Sam stayed at her house on the nights when the boys were with Michael and they made passionate love, before falling asleep wrapped in each other’s arms. On Sunday mornings, they sat in bed reading the papers never the News and had breakfast, before making love again, usually with toast crumbs sticking to their bodies.

Aisling was amazed at how quickly she’d got used to his presence in her life and her bed. When Michael left, she’d genuinely thought that she’d never want another man ever again. And here she was in a serious relationship with Sam.

He’d certainly improved her life made her feel better about herself in every way. But there was something not quite right about their relationship lately. She’d first noticed it one day when he rang her from his office to tell her that his trip to London the following day had been cancelled.

“I thought we could have a romantic dinner for two,” he suggested.

“Just you, me and a bottle of nice Chablis.”

“Sorry, Sam,” Aisling said. The boys have to finish a project by Thursday morning, so I said I’d help them with it tomorrow night. It’s on “Space”, which is great because they love watching Star Trek. They’re mad about anything to do with astronauts. Anyway,” she added, “I’m not really able to do late nights in the middle of the week. I’ll fall asleep at my desk if I don’t get a decent seven hours’ sleep. I do hope you understand.”