Читать книгу Valentine Vendetta - Шэрон Кендрик, Sharon Kendrick - Страница 9

‘FRAN—I’m at my wit’s end! She seems to be having some kind of mid-life crisis!’

‘But she’s only twenty-six,’ said Fran.

‘Exactly!’

The memory of that phone call still burned in Fran’s ears. A dramatic phone call, from a woman not given to dramatization.

‘Just go and see her, would you, Fran?’ Rosie’s mother had pleaded. ‘Something has happened to upset her and I can’t get any sense out of her. But I suppose you girls don’t tell your mothers anything.’

‘So you’ve no idea what’s wrong?’ Fran had probed, thinking that it was rather flattering to be called a girl at the ripe old age of twenty-six!

‘I think it has to do with some man—’

‘Oh,’ said Fran drily. ‘The usual story.’

‘And that life isn’t worth living any more.’

‘She said what?’ That had been the statement which had brought Fran up short and had her booking the next London-bound flight out of Dublin. Not that she believed for a minute that Rosie would do anything stupid—but she was normally such a happy-go-lucky person. For her mother to be this worried, things must be bad.

Now she could see for herself that they were worse than bad.

She had found Rosie curled up like a baby on the sofa of one very cold flat. And the conversation had gone round and round in a loop, consisting of Rosie saying, Oh, Fran. Fran! Fran!’ Followed by a renewed bout of shuddering tears.

‘Ssssh, now. It’s all right.’ Fran squeezed her friend’s shoulder tightly as the tears came thick and fast. ‘Why don’t you take a deep breath, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.’

Rosie made a sound like a cat who was trying to swallow a mouse in one. ‘C-c-can’t!’ she shuddered.

‘Off the top of my head, I’d say it’s a man?’ said Fran, thinking that it might be wise not to mention the worried phone call. Not just yet.

Rosie nodded.

‘So tell me about him.’

‘He’s….he’s…oh!’

‘He’s what?’ prompted Fran softly.

‘He’s a bastard—and I still love him!’

Fran nodded. So. As she had thought. The usual story. She’d heard women pour the same sorry tale out countless times before and the more cruel the man, the more they seemed to love him. She wondered if some women were so lacking in self-esteem that they chose someone who would walk all over them. But she wouldn’t have put Rosie in that category. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘No, you don’t, Fran!’ Rosie shook her head in frustration. ‘You say you do but you don’t! How could anyone see? You just sit there with that seen-it-all-before look on your face—’

‘I’ve never seen you like this before,’ Fran disagreed immediately. ‘And I’ve known you most of your life! And before you insult me much more, Rosie Nichols—I might just remind you that I’ve flown over at top speed from Dublin, in answer to an urgent request from your mother that I find out exactly what’s wrong with you.’

‘My mother asked you to come?’

‘She wasn’t interfering, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was just worried, and wanted me to see how you were.’

Rosie looked at her defiantly. ‘So now you know.’

Fran shook her head. ‘Oh, no,’ she corrected grimly. ‘I haven’t even started yet! All I know is that I walk into your flat which looks as though a major war has broken out—to find you sitting in a pathetic heap looking gaunt and tear-stained—sobbing bitterly about some mystery man whose name you can’t bring yourself to utter—’

‘Sam,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘His name is Sam.’

‘Sam!’ echoed Fran with a ghost of a smile. ‘That’s Sam whose paternity you questioned just a minute ago, is it? And does this Sam have a surname?’

‘It’s Lockhart.’ Rosie looked at her expectantly. ‘Sam Lockhart.’

‘Sam Lockhart.’ Fran considered this. ‘Cute name. Catchy.’

‘You haven’t heard of him?’

‘No. Should I have done?’

‘Maybe not. But he’s rich and gorgeous and those kind of attributes tend to get you known—especially among women.’

‘Tell me more.’

Rosie shrugged her shoulders morosely. ‘He’s a literary agent. The best. They say if Sam takes you on, you’re almost certain to end up living in tax-exile! He’s got an instinctive nose for a best seller!’

Fran tried not to look too disapproving. ‘And I suppose he’s married?’

‘Married? You’re kidding!’ Rosie shook her head so that wild curls spilled untidily around her face. ‘What do you take me for?’

Fran breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, he’s not completely bad, then,’ she said. ‘Married men who play away from home are the worst. And I should know!’ She flicked Rosie another look. ‘Has he ever been married?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘No, he’s single. Still single,’ she added, and stared down at her chewed fingernails as tears began to splash uninhibitedly onto her hands.

Fran gave Rosie’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘Want to tell me all about it?’

‘I guess,’ said Rosie listlessly.

‘How long since you’ve eaten?’

Rosie shrugged. ‘I had coffee for breakfast—but there’s nothing much in the flat.’

Resisting the urge to remark that judging by the general air of neglect any food would probably carry a health warning, Fran shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said gently. ‘I’m taking you out for dinner.’

Rosie momentarily brightened until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. ‘But I can’t go out looking like this!’

‘Too right—you can’t,’ agreed Fran calmly. ‘So go and do something to your hair, slap on some warpaint and for goodness sake, lose those hideous baggy trousers!’

An hour later, they were installed in a booth at ‘Jacko’s!’—a restaurant/bar which had just opened up on the water’s edge at one of London’s less fashionable riverside locations. It had the indefinable buzz of success about it. Fran smiled up at the waitress whose skirt barely covered her underwear and ordered two alien-sounding cocktails from the menu.

She stared across the table at Rosie whom she had known since they were both fat-faced three-year-olds toddling into school on their first day at Nursery, where Rosie had demonstrated her ability for attracting trouble by losing her teddy bear down the side of a bookcase. And Fran had slipped her small hand in and retrieved it.

It had set a pattern for their school years. Rosie got herself into a scrape and Fran got her out of it! Since Fran had moved to Dublin five years ago, their paths rarely crossed, but after a few minutes back in her old friend’s company, Fran felt as if they’d never been apart.

Well, maybe not quite.

Rosie seemed terribly distracted, jumpy even—but maybe in the circumstances that was understandable. Her face looked harder, too. But Fran told herself that people changed—she had changed herself. She had had to. That was all part of life’s rich tapestry. Or so they said….

‘Now tell me,’ she said firmly. ‘Just who Sam Lockhart is—and why you’ve fallen in love with him.’

‘Oh, everyone falls in love with him!’ Rosie gave a gloomy shrug. ‘You can’t help yourself.’

‘Then it’s a pity I can’t meet him,’ observed Fran. ‘Since that sounds like the sort of challenge it would give me great pleasure to resist!’

‘I’d like to see you try!’

Fran liberated a smooth strand of hair which had somehow become all twisted up in the string of pearls she wore and fixed her friend with a stern expression. ‘In my earlier life as an agony aunt on a well-known Dublin radio station,’ she said, ‘I soon learnt that the easiest way to forget a man is to start thinking of him as a mere mortal and not as a god. Debunk the myth, that’s what I say!’

Rosie screwed her nose up. ‘Come again?’

‘Stop making everything about him seem so wonderful and extraordinary—’

‘But it is!’

Fran shook her head. ‘That’s the wrong way to look at it. Try concentrating on all the bad things about him instead!’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, I don’t know the man, so I can’t really help you with that. But instead of describing him as, say, utterly unobtainable, tell yourself that he’s arrogant and distant and nobody in their right mind would want to live with him! Right?’

‘Er, right,’ said Rosie doubtfully.

Fran winced as a silver beaker of what looked and smelt like cough medicine was placed in front of her. She took a tentative sip through the straw and nearly shot off the edge of her seat before a dreamy kind of lethargy began to melt her bones. Still, some light an-aesthetic might be just what Rosie needed.

‘Drink up,’ she instructed and leaned forward eagerly as she began to slide the drink across the table towards Rosie. ‘And tell me what happened. Like—where did you meet him?’

Rosie took a quick slug of the cocktail. ‘Remember when I did that stint as a secretary for Gordon-Browne—that big firm of literary agents? Well, Sam was their star player and we got kind of, you know…involved.’

Fran nodded, thinking how unusually coy Rosie sounded. ‘So how long did it last?’

‘Er, not as long as I would have liked.’

‘And when did it end?’

‘Oh, ages ago now,’ gulped Rosie vaguely. ‘Months and months. Longer, even. Over two years,’ she admitted at last.

‘Two years?’ Fran blinked. ‘But surely you should be getting over it by now?’

‘Why?’ Rosie sniffed. ‘How long did it take you to get over the breakup of your marriage to Sholto?’

‘Oh, no.’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’re here to talk about you, not me. Surely you haven’t been like this since it ended?’

Rosie shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t—but my life has never been the same since Sam. He brought me bad luck. I haven’t been able to settle into another job or another relationship. And now I’ve heard….’ Her voice tailed off into silence.

Fran hoped to high heaven that this man Sam hadn’t done something like announcing his engagement to someone else. That would be hard. Though maybe a brutal demonstration of his love for someone else might be just the cure that Rosie actually needed. ‘Heard what?’ she asked.

‘He’s planning to throw a ball. Which is totally out of character!’

Which immediately told Fran that he must be rich. And well connected. ‘And?’

‘It’s a Valentine’s Day Ball. And I want to be invited,’ said Rosie fiercely.

‘Well, you might be. Don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t. But I would, wouldn’t I—if you were organizing it! You’d make sure of that!’ Rosie’s eyes took on a hopeful gleam.

Fran shook her head as she saw which way the conversation was heading. ‘Oh, no!’

‘Fran, it’s your job! That’s what you do for a living, you plan people’s parties for them.’

‘Yes, you’re right, I do. But it’s also my livelihood, Rosie, and I have my reputation to think of. Huge, high-profile society balls aren’t really my thing. And I don’t just go around using these events to settle grudges for friends—however much I love them. Staging some kind of Valentine vendetta! Which I presume is what you want me to do. Or is it just an invitation you’re after? You want to dress to kill and then knock his socks off, is that it?’

‘Maybe.’

Fran gave a wistful smile. ‘It won’t work, you know. It never does. If this man Sam has fallen out of love with you—then nothing you can say or do will bring him back. Nothing,’ she emphasised flatly. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid.’

Rosie bit down on her lip. ‘But he never was in love with me.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Fran’s eyes softened. ‘Well, in that case I’m very sorry, hon,’ she said gently. ‘What can I say?’

Rosie took a mouthful of Fran’s discarded cocktail, then looked up, her eyes two fierce burning stars in her face. ‘I was just another virgin for Sam to seduce,’ she said dully. ‘To pick up and discard once he’d had what he wanted!’

Something primitive cracked like an old bone inside Fran’s head. She remembered their schoolgirl dreams about men and rice and white dresses and knew she should not be shocked at what Rosie had just told her—certainly not in this day and age, and yet she was shocked. Deeply. ‘He took your virginity?’ she said slowly. ‘Did he know?’

‘Yes, of course he knew.’ Rosie gave a cynical laugh. ‘I saved it, Fran. I saved my virginity for the man I loved.’

But he didn’t love you back, Fran thought, flexing her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring the movement of a fat, ginger cat who lay sprawled across one corner of the bar. ‘And in spite of not loving you—he took the most precious thing you had to offer?’

‘That’s right,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘And I wasn’t the only one!’

‘You mean there were others?’

‘Hundreds!’

‘Hundreds?’

‘Well, tens anyway. Loads!’ Rosie spat the word out. ‘Women who adored him. Women he didn’t give tup-pence for! Women who were all too easy to trick into his bed!’

‘You’re kidding!’

‘I wish I was!’

Fran stared down at the silver gleam of the high-tech table, and thought of rich Sam Lockhart luring decent, hard-working girls like Rosie into his bed. A powerful man abusing that power to seduce innocent young women.

When she eventually lifted her golden-brown head to meet her friend’s eyes, her own were deadly serious. She remembered the scrapes that Rosie had managed to land herself in at school, scrapes that Fran had somehow always got her out of. But this was different. Was it her place to help, even if she could?

‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked at last.

Rosie didn’t even have to think about it. ‘Nothing too major,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m not asking you to break any laws for me, Fran.’

‘What then?’

‘Just pay him back.’