CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jo sat on a stool in the small dressing room and watched Frederick paint one last coat of ruby-red lipstick on the model’s perfect mouth. The girl sat perfectly still in the chair. Dark arched brows framed pale blue eyes edged by expertly applied eyeliner, giving her an exotic, faintly Egyptian look.
“We want vampish make-up, dark, smoky eyes and dark lips,” Jo had explained to Frederick on the phone the previous week.
“I’m calling it the Christmas Glamour Look and I’ve got three long dark evening dresses, one black velvet tuxedo and a sequin ned mini dress for the shoot. The make-up has to be dramatic.”
Frederick was doing his best to be very dramatic, although the heavy make-up required for the camera looked out of place in a draughty photographic studio on a cool Monday morning in September.
Exhausted after a restless night, Jo didn’t feel up to organising the shoot for the December issue. It was two months to the Christmas production day, but that edition traditionally carried lots of fashion pages and Jo knew that Ralph, the photographer Style used, had a catalogue shoot lined up for half of October and was going on holiday to Jamaica in November. That left September for everything the skiing clothes shoot, the knitwear shoot, the working woman’s suit shoot and the lingerie-to-get-your-man-to-buy you-for-Christmas shoot.
She had to organise all those over the next two weeks, which would mean lots of dashing around the shops searching for the right accessories and perfect shoes. At least she’d got absolutely everything she needed today.
Several elegant dresses hung from the rail in the small dressing room, ready for the two models to transform themselves into glamour queens. Boxes containing high-heeled suede and satin sandals were lined up on the floor, while packets of tights lay on the cupboard top alongside the simple silver earrings Jo had picked for the shoot.
Frederick’s huge bag of tricks were spread out on the counter top, palettes of every colour under the sun, eye pencils, brushes, jars of foundation and cotton buds jostling for space beside the hairdresser’s heated rollers, cans of hairspray, pins and brushes.
Outside the door, Ralph yelled instructions around the large, highceilinged studio. It was nearly eleven on Monday morning and they had to be finished by half two because Ralph was photographing a group for a business magazine at three. It didn’t leave them much time for the Style shoot and as the other model was late, they were definitely in trouble.
The photographer’s favourite Eric Clapton CD was belting out of the sound system and Jo could feel the stirrings of a thumping headache. This was shaping up to be a disastrous day. It had been a pretty bad weekend, as she’d waited for Mark to ring so she could explain exactly what had happened at the office.
She’d gone over it in her head many times, telling him how she’d really tried to get on well with Emma. How she’d, worked with the younger woman to make her part of the Style team. How Emma had thrown it all back in her face in a fit of spite. But Mark hadn’t phoned.
By Sunday night, Jo had convinced herself that he’d heard Emma’s side of the story and had made up his mind not to ring her at all. She felt utterly miserable. The only bright spark on the horizon was the thought of her cottage, which Mark’s contractor friend had told her was structurally sound even though it needed some work.
“Finished,” announced Frederick. He stood back and admired his handiwork. The model, Carol, unfurled her long, impossibly slender body, stood up and reached into her denim shirt pocket for her
cigarettes. “Don worry, I’ll smoke outside she said, patting Jo on the shoulder. The model pulled on a tatty leather bomber jacket over her jeans, careful not to dislodge the heated rollers in her dark hair and left the room, lighting up as she went.
“We’re nearly ready shouted Ralph from the studio.
“Where the hell is Stephanie?”
“Here.” came another voice, as a tall blonde girl dressed in grey sweatpants and parka hurried into the dressing room, hair flying.
“Sorry I’m late she said to Jo.
“I got stuck in traffic.”
“Steph, your hair!” shrieked Alan, the hairdresser, pushing into the dressing room with a tray and four mugs of tea.
Stephanie’s high-cheekboned face was stunning even devoid of make-up, but her hair was definitely greasy at the roots.
“I won’t have time to wash it now. It’ll have to be sleeked-back hair Alan muttered to Jo.
“Fine.- Jo was tired, cross and ready to belt Steph’s beautiful head. She didn’t care what Alan did to the model’s bloody hair. Damn Mark. Damn, damn, damn.
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.
“You’ve got five minutes,” repeated Jo.
“I’m updating my CV, you understand, and I don’t have any time to waste.”
Refusing to rise to the bait, Mark walked into the small sitting room and stared around for a moment before sitting down on the settee. He stretched long legs ahead of him and looked up at her.
“Sit down, Jo.”
This is my house, smart ass,” she hissed.
“Don’t tell me when to sit down.”
“Sorry, sorry.”
She sat. The sheer nerve of him. Marching into her house and taking over.
“So?” Jo arranged her cotton jumper over her blue jogging pants to hide the ink stain on the front. She was angry and she hated being caught out wearing a dreadful outfit. And this ancient white hand-knitted jumper with threads hanging out and threadbare jogging pants with no socks was pretty dreadful. The carpet could have done with a good vacuum into the bargain and the weeping fig had wept a new batch of dead leaves onto the fireplace … “I’ve come to apologise.”
Jo blinked.
“I should have rung you but I was in the car, I’d left your number in the office and,” Mark paused and tried to look her in the eye, but she avoided his gaze, “I didn’t think it was that important. At the time.”
“It wasn’t important at all,” she replied coldly.
“Just your average day in the office when nepotism runs amok. There’s nothing to apologise for.” Jo knew she was pushing it but she didn’t care. For once she felt gloriously like flinging caution to the wind.
“I just can’t work under those circumstances, that’s all. I’ve worked in journalism for thirteen years and I’ve never been treated with the sort of disrespect Emma showed me. What’s more,” she was beginning to enjoy this, “I’ve certainly never treated anyone else that badly, either. It just isn’t in my nature and it certainly isn’t the way to win friends and influence people, or get the best out of them. But your niece is a law unto herself and quite frankly, I won’t work with her any more.” She snorted.
“Anyway, you’ve made it quite plain what way your allegiance lies.”
“What way is that?” he asked calmly.
“What way is that?” she mimicked.
“Do you honestly want me to answer that?” Mark looked tired.
“No.” Jo was really angry now.
“I don’t. You’ve already answered it by your silence. When I thought you’d want to talk to me to find out what had happened, you simply didn’t bother ringing. When I thought you and I had a friendship, a ..”A what?” he prompted. She’d been on the verge of saying ‘a relationship’, and he knew it. Damn him, but he wasn’t getting her to play his bloody games. She didn’t want to be his amusement for the evening.
“A nothing,” she said angrily.
“We have nothing, I can see that now. And I can see I can’t work for you any more.”
“Don’t be rash snapped Mark.
“Don’t tell me what not to be!” she shrieked.
“You’re just like all bloody men, telling me what not to be. Just get out!
Get out of here and stick your bloody job where the sun doesn’t fucking shine!”
He stood up slowly and sighed.
“Jo, I’m sorry. I came here to apologise, I wanted to explain what had happened.”
“I don’t want your apologies,” she said, feeling her eyes smart. God, she didn’t want to cry in front of him. What sort of whinging idiot had she turned into, always crying at the drop of a hat?
“Please, Jo. Listen to me.”
“Just go.”
He said nothing, but he didn’t move either.
Jo poked around in her sleeve looking for a tissue. Why wasn’t he going? Was she going to have to throw him out?
“Jo, just let me say one thing, all right?” His eyes were alight with something she couldn’t identify, It was probably amusement, she thought, since it felt as if the rest of the world’s male population were laughing at her for her naivety and sheer stupidity. Jo Ryan falls for another man’s lies, again. Ha bloody ha.
“I’m sorry I didn’t ring you over the weekend, but believe me, I didn’t take Emma’s explanation at face value,” Mark said in a low voice. And I’m sorry if I sounded angry with you when I rang you from London about it, but it had been a very bad day. Emma’s latest crisis was all I needed and I thought you’d be able to handle her until I got back,” He leaned against the back of an armchair tiredly and folded his arms.
“I trust your judgement, Jo, that’s why I wanted ‘you to sort things out. Please believe me.”
Jo stared at him fiercely, determined not to be swayed by any trumped-up explanation.
“The problem was that I had no idea what Emma had actually said and done until Rhona told me and since I’ve heard, I’ve been trying to get hold of you to apologise for her behaviour. Please understand he said, looking at her intently.
“I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”
He stood up and fished his car keys out of his trouser pocket. Tm going to go now because I’ve upset you. And let’s just forget about where I can stick the deputy editorship.”
Jo flushed.
“Take as much time off as you need, Jo. Bye.”
He went, leaving behind him a scent of cologne, the same one she’d smelled when they sat together on the plane, when they’d gone out to dinner, when he’d brought her looking at the house in Redwood Lane.
She stared at the door for a moment, feeling the anger subside as rapidly as it had erupted. In the kitchen, she got a glass of water and drank it quickly, her hand shaking.
Hell, what had she said, what had she done? Jo felt her face flame when she thought about it. She told the boss that he could ‘stick his job’. Oh God. At least he hadn’t accepted her resignation.
How would she ever face him again? How could she sit in at the editorial meetings and have him look at her with those grave, sad eyes as if she’d hurt him deeply? And she must have. He’d been trying to say the right thing and she’d flown off the handle and ruined it all. As usual. It wasn’t Mark’s fault that she was utterly at sea emotionally. That was Richard’s fault. Richard and the pregnancy which was responsible for mood swings like tidal waves.
And Mark wasn’t just the boss, anyway. He was more than that, much more, if she admitted it to herself.
She had a sudden impulse to phone him on his mobile. She had the number, although she’d never used it before. If she rang and
apologised now, maybe he’d come back and she could say she was sorry properly.
Tell him that she simply felt alone and miserable at the thought of having the baby on her own and that he’d arrived when she was at her lowest. Then she thought again. Face facts, she told herself. Mark is your boss, not your lover.
Phoning him would look stupid, desperate even. You’ve messed!
everything up. Think about what you’re going to do now.
When she’d made a cup of sweet tea and taken the last couple of chocolate digestives from the packet, she phoned Rhona. Rhona would know what to do. Or, at the very worst, she’d know what sort of hat Jo could wear into the office for the rest of her life so she wouldn’t have to either look at Mark Denton or let him see her face puce with embarrassment.
“Rho, you won’t believe what I’ve done.”
“I can’t imagine, Jo.” Rhona replied. Jo could hear her take a deep drag of a cigarette.
“But you don’t sound the best. Are you feeling OK?”
“Apart from a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, I’m fine,” Jo explained.
“Mark’s just been to see me,” she added, more slowly.
“Why do I get the feeling that all did not go well on this visit?” Rhona inquired.
“Because you’re psychic?”
“Nope. It’s probably because I can always tell when you’re gearing for a complete blow-out,” Rhona said.
“You do get to know people when you’ve worked with them for three years.
So what happened? Is he still breathing?”
“Oh Rho.” Jo sat on the edge of the settee with the phone balanced on her knees.
“I’ve known myself for thirty-four years and even I wouldn’t have predicted this one. I’ve been such a fool. Within the space of about five minutes I managed to insult Mark, tell him where to stick his job, and,” she grimaced at the thought of it, “I nearly said that I thought we had a “relationship” before he messed it all up. I didn’t say it but he knew I was going to. You’ve no idea how I feel,” wailed Jo.
“What is it about me that I can’t be normal where men are concerned? ““It impossible to be normal when men are involved because they’re impossible,” Rhona replied. They give the phrase “mission impossible” a whole new dimension. Now look, Jo, this is hardly the end of the world. You’re just overwrought. I’m sure Mark knows that.”
“Oh, so he thinks I’m hysterical and that’s supposed to be good?”
“It’s better than him thinking you meant it about sticking his job. He didn’t accept, did he?” Rhona said knowingly.
“Course he didn’t. You know he likes you. What am I saying likes you, he fancies you like mad. He’s just unfortunate to have been caught in the crossfire of pregnancy hormones.”
“Do you think he’ll understand?” Jo finished the second biscuit and licked the crumbs off her fingers.
“Honestly, Jo, for a woman who looks as if she should have the entire male population slavering at her feet, you really haven’t a clue about men, have you?”
Not waiting for ah answer, Rhona ploughed on.
“It’s obvious to me that Mark is crazy about you. But because he’s trying to tread carefully, and because you’re hopeless at reading the situation, you’re making a complete mess of the whole thing.”
“Do you think so?” Jo said doubtfully. It all sounded so much more reasonable when Rhona said it.
“Yes. Now listen to your auntie Rhona or Madame Rhona the psychic as I want to be known in future and go off and have a nice swim, or something energetic like that. Then go home, relax and come in here tomorrow morning as if nothing ever happened. OK?”
“OK. What about Emma? I simply couldn’t face her tomorrow.”
“You won’t have to. I’ve suspended her. Actually, I’ve never suspended anyone before,” the other woman said thoughtfully, ‘so I had to make it up as I went along. It went pretty well, though.”
“What did you say?” demanded Jo, dying to know every gory detail.
“Well, remember that time we were at the Pret A Porter premiere party in the Chocolate Bar and that drunk pulled me onto his lap and tried to stick his hand down my Ben De Lisi shirt?” Even in times of crisis, Rhona was exact about clothes.
“Oh my God yes, I’ll never forget it! I didn’t think you knew how to be so vicious.”
“I was worse than that with Emma.” Rhona said.
“That girl will think twice actually, she’ll think three or four times before ever speaking to anyone in Style like that ever again. I pointed out that word quickly gets around about someone who’s trouble to work with. It’s one thing to be pig-ignorant and rude if you’ve made it, if you’re a damn good journalist or whatever.”
She took another drag of her cigarette.
“But if you’re trouble and you’re only a junior with no evidence of any talent whatsoever, forget about a career in journalism, I said. There are thousands of freelances out there just waiting to step into your shoes, Emma, so wake up and smell the coffee.”
“I’m impressed.”
“So was I,” Rhona said smugly.
“I gave Ted a brief version of it at home afterwards and he was shocked, I can tell you. He says he’s going to disown me when the kids get into trouble at school and I have to go down to give the headmistress a piece of my mind. He couldn’t face the carnage, he said.”
Jo suddenly realised she was laughing and that the knot of tension in her belly was loosening.
“Thanks, Rhona, you’re great at getting people to forget their problems. Can I stay in your house until I have the baby so you can stop me going berserk every second day?”
“With three under-tens running around constantly, you’d really go mad, I can tell you,” Rhona replied.
“You’re right.” Jo managed a weak laugh.
“If I take lots of deep breaths tomorrow morning, I think I’ll be able to face the office. Mark’s not due in, is he?”
“Nope. Anyway, he’s not going to bite you.”
“No, but I may pass out with embarrassment when I see him,” Jo pointed
out. “No you won’t.” Rhona’s voice was firm.
“Go and do something energetic so you don’t have a second to think about it. I’ll be in the office at half nine tomorrow morning with the kettle boiled.”
Nerves got Jo out of bed early, so she was the first person in the office and had already made a cup of tea when Rhona arrived.
“How come I always have so much junk with me?”
demanded Rhona, staggering into the office weighed down as usual by a capacious handbag, a bulging briefcase and the fat black velvet make-up bag she could never fit in her handbag.
“Get pregnant, split up with Ted and you’ll be able to spend many happy hours at home feeling exhausted and bored, and -you’ll end-up tidying your handbag/wardrobekitchen cupboards whatever said Jo, pouring water on a tea bag for Rhona.
“Did you do all that?”
“Yes. I feel very virtuous, I can tell you. I even threw out all the saggy knickers I never wear, found and bin ned the tights with holes in them and rounded up all the black socks and found them partners, or the closest thing to a partner.”
“I’m impressed. Will you do mine?”
“Do what?” inquired Nikki, the beauty editor, who’d just arrived in a cloud of Opium.
“Jo has turned into a living, breathing “de-junk your life” feature,” Rhona explained, taking her tea into her office so she could smoke.
“Oh please de-junk my life.” Nikki shrugged off her black suede coat.
“I spent half of yesterday afternoon writing an article about the beauty essentials and how you only needed blusher, lip gloss, concealer and mascara in your emergency make-up bag. While I, naturally, carry half of Boots around with me every day and it necessitated a ten-minute search this morning to locate my new eyebrow make-up. By the way,” she said to Jo as she switched on her computer, ‘you haven’t forgotten the make-over session this morning?”
“Shit,” said Jo, who had.
“It just slipped my mind. What time are they coming in at?”
Ten-thirty. We’re going to the hairdresser’s at eleven and Michelle she’s the new make-up artist I was telling you about, Rhona she’s doing their make-up in the salon. Then we’ve lunch in Spinelli’s at one and the photographer will!
take the pics there.”
“Oh no, I forgot to remind Annette to get the clothes picked!
up yesterday shouted Jo in horror. “Don’t panic, I did it,” said Nikki.
“I knew you were sick,” she added.
“How are you today?”
“Fine.” Jo replied.
“I just needed a few days in bed.” “Ah yes, but with whom?” called Rhona from her office, winking lewdly at Jo.
“Watch it McNamara she replied.
“Just because you can take on headmistresses, don’t try anything with me.”
“What’s this about headmistresses?” inquired Nikki.
Jo, Nikki and Michelle, the make-up artist, all tilted their heads sideways and looked at the second make-over candidate through narrowed eyes. It was hard to see where to begin.
They were in Peter Mark’s Hair and Beauty salon in the Stephen’s Green shopping centre and the day was deteriorating rapidly.
The first woman to be made over was an already stunning redhead in her early forties who needed a make-over like Ivana Trump needed dresses. With a fabulous figure, perfect make-up, glossy hair and an outfit that must have cost a week’s wages, there was absolutely nothing any of them could do to improve Helen.
“How the hell did we pick her?” whispered Nikki into Jo’s ear when Helen was brought off to the washbasins.
“Her letter said she was a mother of four with kids ranging in age from twenty to four, that she worked part-time as a nurse and helped her husband run a garden centre outside Cork.” replied Jo. The picture was blurry and she said she’d love a change of image and I thought she
deserved it. She could probably give us lessons on changing our image,” groaned Nikki.
“I don’t know what we can do to improve her.”
The second make-over candidate, however, was going to be a huge headache for the hairdresser. As a result of a perm gone wrong, twenty-nine-year-old Sharon who had long mousey hair in the passport-sized photo she’d sent in now sported layered hair that sat at an unflattering length between her ears and her jaw. The hairdresser was nearly tearing her own hair out at the thought of doing anything with Sharon’s hair in its present state.
“You’ll have to think of something,” Jo hissed at the hairdresser and make-up artist. The poor girl travelled miles to be here and she’s going to have a wonderful day and look “beautiful if we have to buy her a bloody wig!”
To make matters worse, Sharon wasn’t the size fourteen that she’d claimed in her letter. Instead, she was an eighteen at least which meant that the elegant wool jacket and skirt Jo had carefully picked for her definitely wouldn’t fit.
“I’ve seen some fabulous suits in the shops that would have looked really gorgeous on her,” groaned Jo, ‘if only she’d said she was a size eighteen in the letter, I could have brought her off and we’d have picked something amazing. There just isn’t the time now!”
“Well, what will we do?” demanded Nikki.
“I’m going to race down to Marks and Spark’s to get her a different outfit because they have great clothes in right now and we simply don’t have the time for a proper shopping trip.
Damn,” she added, “I’d have loved to have gone shopping with Sharon.”
Marks was blissfully empty and Jo spent an enjoyable fifteen minutes browsing, wishing she could buy something instead of saving her money for the new house. Now that she’d rung an estate agent about selling her apartment, the idea of moving had finally become reality and she knew she had to econo mise She’d stuck her credit card at the back of her dressing-table drawer and vowed to keep it there no matter what sort of mid-season sales started.
She’d have to be very careful with money until she was settled in her new home. Luckily, the woman from the estate agent’s said apartments in her block were always in demand and she’d have no trouble selling, despite the time of year.
“It’s such a pretty complex and the apartments are quite spacious compared to the ones being built now, so I doubt if you’ll have to wait long,” the estate agent said.
Jo was so busy working out how much money she’d need to borrow to buy the cottage and wondering whether she could afford a sloppy chenille jumper to hide her bump, that she totally lost track of time.
Oh no, she thought looking at her watch in horror. It was half eleven and she hadn’t even started looking for clothes for Sharon.
But Jo wasn’t a clothesaholic with an encyclopaedic knowledge of where to get what in her favourite shops for nothing.
It was just twelve as she rushed up Grafton Street with a large M & S bag in each hand. Jo really wished she hadn’t worn the long caramel wool cardigan over the cream silk shirt and black trousers. As she hurried past the crowds ambling along the pedestrian street, she was soon roasting hot and felt ready for a make-over herself. Or at least a chance to redo her foundation which had undoubtedly disappeared with sweat.
She struggled up the escalator and into Peter Mark’s to find Nikki relaxing on a couch, reading a magazine and leisurely sipping a cup of coffee, oblivious to the controlled chaos of the salon. Nikki’s blonde hair was immaculate, her face wasn’t shiny and red, and her off-white trouser suit looked as fresh as if it had just been returned from the dry-cleaner’s. Hot, sticky and convinced that she smelled like a jockey’s armpit, Jo felt like bag lady by comparison. ” “You got the clothes all right, then?” Nikki got up and took the two large bags from Jo.
“You look wrecked. Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
Thanks,” panted Jo, sinking gratefully onto the seat Nikki had just vacated.
“I feel wrecked. But I got this beautiful crimson Mandarin jacket and
matching palazzos that will look great on Sharon. How’s it going?” she asked anxiously.
“Brilliantly,” said Nikki enthusiastically.
“You wouldn’t believe how Sharon’s hair has turned out. That hairdresser has worked miracles. And Helen looks amazing. Mind you, she looked amazing in the beginning.”
“Well,” said Jo, relieved to find that the make-over had been a success after all, ‘we’ll just make her “before” picture very, very small. Or else say she didn’t really get a make-over but just wanted to feel pampered for a day.”
Nikki had been right. Sharon’s new look really suited her.
The hairdresser has shaped her hair, added a rich chestnut rinse to make it glossy and given her a short, feather cut. The only thing I could think of she told Jo, ‘and it worked!”
Sharon looked a million dollars thanks to the elegant crimson suit that Jo had picked for her, teamed with the right make-up and a new haircut which emphasised her beautiful dark brown eyes.
“It’s fantastic.” She beamed at Jo. Thank you so much. I never thought I could-look like this.” She threw her arms around the fashion editor.
“I’m so pleased for you said Jo with a big smile. This is my favourite part of make-overs she added as the photographer took a couple of quick pictures, ‘when people are pleased with what we’ve done. Normally we just take the pictures and go. But today we’ve got a wonderful lunch lined up where you two ladies can show off your amazing ladies-who-lunch look!”
“Have you got any deodorant?” Jo whispered to Nikki in the restaurant loos. She’d managed to tone down her red face, but she still felt sticky after her run up Grafton Street.
Nikki handed Jo some deodorant and a bottle of Opium.
Thanks.” said Jo gratefully, spraying herself liberally.
“I’ve left my perfume in the office by mistake and I’m sure all my Tresor has worn off.”
She glanced at Nikki as the other woman expertly applied a fresh coat of subtle beige lipstick and wished, for once, that she didn’t work
with such a paragon of style and beauty. Nikki was always perfectly turned out, never wore chipped nail varnish and never got lipstick on her teeth. And today was no exception.
Jo ran a brush through her tortoiseshell curls and wished she had something to tie it back with because it was greasy at the roots. Then she followed Nikki into the restaurant. Helen, Sharon and Nell, the photographer, were at the table getting stuck into pre-lunch gin and tonics, the other two laughing at some filthy joke Nell had just told
Jo was just maneuvering herself around the table into her seat at the wall when she spotted them. The woman wore a figure-hugging black shift dress and an eye-catching red jacket which a very suave and elegant Mark Denton was helping her out of. He must have said something funny because she laughed suddenly, the sleek dark hair rippling as she leaned her head back. Even her laugh was warm, husky and sexy.
Bitch. Jo felt jealousy spear her as she watched Mark, very attractive in a steel grey suit to match his eyes, pull out the woman’s chair before sinking into his. He took the menu and wine list from the waiter almost without looking at him, eyes on the woman all the time. Not surprising, Jo thought maliciously, when the bitch was wearing a dress with a deep vee in the front showing a Grand Canyon cleavage that had to be thanks to a Wonderbra. Who the hell was she? thought Jo venomously, taking in the glint of serious gold bangles.
“Madam?” inquired a voice. Jo came to her senses to find a waiter smiling down at her, pen and order pad in hand.
“Oh er … I’ll have, what will I have …” she muttered, casting a quick glance at the menu she’d been dying to get her hands on ten minutes earlier.
Today’s specials are Dublin Bay prawns in Pernod and monkfish tails in a Provencale sauce,” said the waiter hopefully.
“Fine.” Jo shut the menu with a snap and handed it to him.
She didn’t care if she ordered rats’ tails in Pernod at that precise moment.
Nikki was filling Helen, Sharon and Nell in on the finer details of the party she’d been to at the weekend where one woman turned up with her husband and left with somebody else’s.
“She’s Dublin’s Zsa Zsa Gabor’ Nikki giggled.
“Ask her how many husbands she’s had and she’ll say “Mine or other people’s?”
Jo craned her head to see what Mark and the mystery woman were up to in the far corner of the restaurant.
Laughing a lot, she thought grimly, watching the dark head shake with mirth yet again. He doesn’t waste any time, does he?
“You know her, don’t you, Jo?” asked Nikki, breaking off mid-story to include Jo in the conversation.
“Know who?”
The Zsa Zsa woman at my party, Lizzie Somethingorother.
Lord, you’re a million miles away, aren’t you, Jo?” Then, noticing Jo’s face, which had gone quite pale, Nikki said, “Are you feeling all right? Are you ill?”
Jo grabbed the glass of water in front of her and took a huge gulp. “Fine,” she lied, ‘fine. I’m just hungry. Hand me a bread roll, will you?”
She sneaked a glance at Mark’s table just in time to see the waiter arrive with a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket.
What the hell were they celebrating? Jo half-listened to the conversation going on around her as she nibbled at her bread roll listlessly. Who was that woman? She thought murderously.
She was very quiet during the meal, barely touched her prawns and poked the monkfish around the plate in a desultory fashion.
The others drank three bottles of wine and were so merry that Nell had to use up three rolls of film before she got any pictures where the two newly made-over women weren’t laughing hysterically.
The waiter was serving coffee when Nikki finally noticed Mark and his companion.
“Look who’s having lunch with his ex,” she murmured to Jo with a smirk.
“I thought that liaison was finished.”
Jo dropped her teaspoon with a clatter.
“What?” she asked.
“It’s Eva Marot,” said Nikki.
“I thought they’d broken up a long time ago.” Trying not to look as though it mattered to her, Jo asked who Eva was.
“You must know.” Nikki raised one perfectly shaped blonde eyebrow in amazement.
“He was involved with her for years, even after she got married. She married some filthy-rich French guy and lives in London most of the time. But she comes back to Ireland a lot she’s an artist and she often paints here. The light is wonderful, apparently.”
Nikki took a sip of brandy. They were quite an item for a long time. Up to a year or so ago, I think,” she added thoughtfully.
“I can’t believe you never heard of her. She was Eva Ward before her marriage.”
“No, I didn’t hear anything,” said Jo faintly.
“She’s half-French on her mother’s side and very chic.
Always wears the most gorgeous clothes.” The other woman took another long look at Mark and his companion.
“That has to be Armani she’s wearing, don’t you think?”
“Mmm, you’re probably right.” Jo toyed with the brown sugar crystals in the bowl in front of her. Stop looking at them, Nikki, she pleaded silently. Or else Mark’ll come over and I couldn’t bear to meet him like this, with me looking like hell and him with Ms Epitome of Chic with the sexy laugh. I bet she whispers sweet nothings in French in bed, she thought jealously.
The waiter arrived with more brandy for everyone except Jo. Nikki turned her attention to Helen’s story about Brandy Alexanders and how the first one she’d ever had-made her instantly drunk and madly sexy.
“Have one,” squealed Nell.
“You’re getting the train home and both you and your husband will have something to remember today by.”
Jo smiled but her mind was miles away. She was the woman Suzanne had
told her about at the party in New York. The mystery woman who’d broken Mark’s heart, the one Suzanne assumed Jo knew all about. Eva Marot. Jo said the name to herself several times, wondering why she’d never even heard the tiniest piece of gossip about her and Mark.
To cap it all, Rhona must have known all along. Jo would just kill her when she got her. Imagine not saying anything about Mark’s past love? She was staring blankly into her half-drunk cup of coffee when she heard that deep, rich voice she’d recognise anywhere.
“Hello, ladies,” Mark said warmly.
“Did you have a nice lunch?”
Jo looked up sharply. He was standing at the other side of the table, smiling at the five of them. She stood just behind him, an elegant vision straight out of the pages of Vogue. Jo could have sworn that the string of pearls around her neck was real, they had that expensive real-pearl lustre.
“This is a lunch for our make-over ladies, Mark,” Nikki was saying.
“Helen and Sharon, meet Mark Denton, Style’s publisher.
And you know Nell, don’t you?”
“Yes, hello, Helen, Sharon and Nell. And how are you, Jo?”
he asked, looking directly at Jo’s startled face.
“Fine.” she said brightly.
“Marvellous! How was your lunch?”
she inquired in the same high-pitched tone.
“Very nice,” Mark answered, looking at her curiously.
The food is just wonderful here, isn’t it?” Eva said in her faintly accented voice, as she slid one arm through Mark’s.
“It’s hard not to eat too much.” She patted a stomach flat as a pancake.
Cow, thought Jo. Just because she’s skinny, she doesn’t have to look down on the rest of us.
“Eva, this is Jo Ryan,” introduced Mark, “Style’s deputy and fashion editor, Nikki Ahearn, our beauty editor, Nell Deane, who’s a photographer and Sharon and Helen who’ve just had a make-over and look gorgeous, if I may say so.” Sharon went pink with pleasure.
“How nice to meet you all.” Eva’s smile looked remarkably genuine, Jo
thought sourly. But then it would, wouldn’t it? A husband and a lover she was having her cake and eating it too. “I’m glad to see that you’re back at work, Jo,” Mark said gently, looking her straight in the eye. Jo glared at him. Was that some sort of dig?
“I have felt better,” she snapped.
“I can see that,” he replied.
“You look worn out.”
The bastard. Just because she wasn’t done up like a dog’s dinner, he didn’t have to be so smart. “When is your baby due?” inquired Eva politely, gazing at Jo’s stomach.”
“Four months well, four and a half, actually.”
“Is it your first?” Eva asked next.
What was this, Jo fumed, bloody Mastermind?
“Yes.”
“Oh.” The other woman appeared to notice her coolness.
“We should go now, Mark,” she murmured, her dark glossy head close to his. Eva was tall, Jo realised, around five ten if she could talk to Mark without craning her neck the way Jo had to.
“Of course, Eva. We don’t want to be late,” he said.
“Bye, ladies, it’s been nice meeting you.” Mark looked at Jo briefly.
“I’ll see you next week at the editorial meeting.”
“Yeah, bye.”
“So nice to meet you all,” Eva said warmly.
Jo took a sip of her coffee even though it was practically lukewarm. She was determined not to watch them leave. But she couldn’t resist. As she glanced up they were at the door, Mark’s strong arm opening the door for Eva to walk through.
Chivalrous as ever.
The waiter brought the bill along with a small plate of After Eights. Nobody touched them. No point wasting them. Jo reached in and took three. What was the point of watching her figure anyway? Nobody noticed.
“I can’t believe you never told me about her!” Jo’s voice was angry.
She stood in Rhona’s office and stared crossly down at her friend. Rhona, who’d been working on her monthly editorial when Jo stormed in after lunch in Spinelli’s, leaned back in her chair and looked at Jo.
“Listen, Jo, Mark told me about Eva in confidence.” Rhona’s voice was very firm and very serious.
“He told me one night a long time before you joined Style and he told me as a friend, asked me not to tell anyone about it. I’m not saying it was easy to keep it to myself, especially that day when I told you Mark had been interested in you for a long time. But honestly, Jo,” Rhona said earnestly, ‘by then I thought you could do without hearing about his beloved ex-girlfriend, a woman he’d adored for years. That would hardly have made you feel very special, would it?”
“I suppose …” said Jo slowly. A woman he’d adored for years? What hope had she against that sort of competition?
A pregnant woman who flew off the handle at the drop of a hat could hardly compete with an exotic artist who’d loved him for years.
“Anyway, it’s over. They split up a long time ago,” Rhona said.
They looked very much together at lunch today,” Jo pointed out.
“They were all over each other.”
“Believe me.” Rhona’s voice was serious. They’re not together any more. Look Jo, I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about her, but that would have been breaking a confidence and I couldn’t do that to Mark. I’ve known him a long time and he trusts me. He’s also very perceptive. If I’d spilled the beans to you, he’d have worked out who told you in two minutes flat.
And he’d have gone mad.”
Rhona lit up a cigarette, then stubbed it out hurriedly.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting not to smoke in front of you,” she said.
“Jo, I wanted to tell you loads of times, but when you really became interested in him, you wouldn’t have appreciated it. And I knew Mark would want to tell you himself if he was serious about you. Can’t you understand the dilemma I was in?”
Jo sighed and sat down in the chair opposite Rhona.
“Sorry, Rho.” she apologised.
“I’ve no right to barge in here and screech at you. I’m angry at myself really, for even thinking he could be interested in me. And if he was,” she added quickly, seeing that Rhona was going to interrupt, “I’ve screwed it up myself. I should have business cards made up “Jo Ryan Incorporated. Will Destroy Any Relationship in Ten Minutes Flat.” ‘ “Don’t be daft,” said Rhona impatiently.
“You’ve just had a bad couple of weeks. He’s not still involved with Eva, I’m sure of it.”
“Even if he isn’t, he’s definitely not interested in me any more,” Jo said sadly.
“So, now that I’m no longer an interested party, is there anything else I should know about Mr. Denton?
Has he ten kids hidden away somewhere, or a mad wife locked in the attic, perhaps?”
She tried to sound flip but Rhona knew her too well for that.
“No,” Rhona said.
“He has remarkably few skeletons in the cupboard. A lot less than I have she added with a wry grin.
“But let him tell you about Eva.”
“He’s not going to tell me anything.”
“You have it your way,” Rhona replied. She changed the subject.
“So tell me, is the November issue too early for the “I know we all want to go on a diet for Christmas, readers, but let’s be grown-ups and accept the way we are” editorial?”
“No, November is fine,” Jo said.
“Let’s leave the “diet your way to beauty” until the January issue and I’ll be one of the guinea pigs when I have to lose the two stone I’ll have put on by then.”
She had just switched on her computer and was looking at the Christmas Glamour Look photos that Ralph had delivered, when her phone rang.
“Jo. I wonder could I have a word with you?” Mark said.
“I’m busy,” she snapped.
“I’m sure you are he replied.
“But this is important.”
“Fine. Talk.” “I want to see you, Jo, not have you talk in monosyllables on the phone.”
Oh no, she thought, she couldn’t handle that, she couldn’t handle actually seeing him. She didn’t want to see him ever again because she knew she’d just break down and cry if she did. If she could keep away from him for a while, then she’d be fine, she knew it. She’d get over Mark Denton. She’d have to.
“I can’t see you right now, Mark,” she said firmly.
“Can’t you talk on the phone? Anyway, I thought you were tied up for the afternoon?” she added smartly.
“I’m not busy,” he said slowly.
“I think we’ve got some unfinished business and I want it sorted out right now.”
“Oh, you mean me calling you names and telling you where you could stick your job. I’m sorry,” Jo said in a low voice.
“I
apologise, I had no right to say those things.”
That’s not really it,” Mark said, ‘that’s just part of the problem. I want to know what’s behind it, what’s going on.
There seems to have been some sort of misunderstanding between us”
Jo froze. She knew exactly what he meant. He was talking about her feelings for him, her ‘infatuation’. She’d all but chatted him up in New York, flirted shamelessly with him and behaved like a spurned girlfriend when he hadn’t rung her over Emma’s little explosion. Now he was going to warn her off. Of course he was. He was back with the love of his life and he wanted all the loose ends tied up. He didn’t want to subject poor Eva to any more of Jo’s ferocious stares, did he?
What a mess. She couldn’t let him think that she really fancied him, that would be too cringe-making. She had to say something.
“I’m sorry,” she gabbled at high speed.
“I know I’ve been acting strangely, but it’s the baby. The baby,” she paused, before inspiration struck, ‘and Richard. He’s back and we’re talking, and I’m going through a difficult time, sorting everything out. You know.”
“Oh.” Mark’s voice sounded different, remote.
“I see,” he said coolly.
“Of course, I understand. Sorry to bother you, Jo, I’ll let you get back to work.”
He hung up. Jo sat with the phone against her ear and wished Brenda wasn’t sitting at the desk opposite, gabbling away to her boyfriend, so
that she could cry.