WHAT COLOUR CLUTCH-BAG to take? Helen Jackson held one black and one silver against her plum-coloured satin Maria Grachvogel dress. She adjusted the plunging neckline to ensure it didn’t expose quite so much of her chest. She didn’t want Richard gaping at her cleavage all night – or did she?
Helen smiled at her reflection.
Tonight was definitely the night. She and Richard Moore had been seeing one another for quite some time now, and she was certain that it was time to take their relationship further. The thought of it all made her more nervous than she would normally allow herself to be.
This, she thought, was probably due to the fact that she liked Richard a lot – actually, more than a lot – and definitely much more than any of the others she had been out with in recent years. Richard was intelligent, good-humoured and very sexy. Helen worked as business consultant manager for XL Business Software in Sandymount, and had met Richard after his recruitment company had sought their advice. Throughout their first meeting, Helen had been as she always was with a client – brisk, professional but unashamedly flirtatious. As she had so often told her sales staff, feminism didn’t earn anyone enough bonuses to keep them in two-bedroom seafront apartments in Monkstown.
But Helen didn’t have to force herself all that much to flirt with a man who looked like Richard Moore. Shortly after their first meeting, and a few equally coquettish phone consultations, the company had upgraded their office network, and Richard had asked her out.
Helen had enjoyed herself immensely each time they went out together, and although there had been more than a few passionate encounters, so far they hadn’t slept together. Helen took this as a positive sign. It meant that he wasn’t just after her thirty-year-old body, and was just as interested in her as a person.
Yes, tonight would be the night, Helen decided.
Maybe finally she would have someone to take the place of the empty chair that positioned itself permanently opposite her, whenever there were any formal get-togethers. Her friends all sat across from their respective partners, as did her colleagues, whereas Helen always got stuck with the empty chair. In fairness, she and the chair were by now way beyond first-name terms, and indeed over the last few years had become best buddies.
She smiled ruefully, and once again concentrated on the task in hand.
Deciding that with this dress the silver bag looked infinitely more glamorous than the black one, Helen rummaged through her wardrobe, and seconds later emerged with a pair of spaghetti-strap mules that were ridiculously high-heeled. OK, they were only imitation Manolos but, more importantly, they matched the bag perfectly. For every hand, clutch, and shoulder-bag she possessed, Helen always had a matching pair of shoes. When the supermarkets stopped giving out free plastic bags, her friends joked that they would soon be seeing Helen shopping in Superquinn wearing a pair of shoes that matched her ‘Bag for Life’.
Anyway, Helen thought, everyone knew that it was bad luck to wear mismatched accessories. God only knew how Laura got away with wearing those silver and gold jewellery combos she put together in her spare time.
Helen ran a brush through her freshly blow-dried locks, and checked her watch. It was almost seven, and she was meeting Richard in town at half past. She’d better get a move on – who knew how long it would take to get a taxi into town on a Friday night? She picked up her bag and coat, tottered downstairs, and slammed the front door behind her – the impact shuddering through the large, empty apartment.
* * *
“You look amazing!” Richard smiled appreciatively, as Helen wobbled unsteadily to where he stood waiting outside the restaurant.
Her heart soared as he leant forward and kissed her softly on the lips. Those silver heels certainly hadn’t been designed with Dublin’s unevenly cobbled footpaths in mind, she thought, following him inside, but it had been worth the discomfort. Thank God she hadn’t worn her precious Jimmy Choos. Although it was a possibility that one of these days she might actually have to wear them outside of the apartment.
“You don’t look so bad yourself, considering you’ve come straight from the office.” Helen nudged him playfully, trying to dispel the rising butterflies in her stomach. Richard did look good. His short dark hair had been recently cropped, and to her delight, Helen noticed there was a slight covering of stubble on his tanned chin. In her opinion, there was nothing sexier than a stubbled chin. Not a beard, mind, Helen drew the line at beards, and she really hated that freshly-shaven Mummy’s-boy look. Stubble was just perfect.
“What time are we eating?” she asked, glancing around the packed restaurant.
Richard raised an eyebrow. “Hopefully soon. I haven’t eaten anything since midday.”
As if on cue, a waitress approached and called them to their table, which fortunately, Helen noted, was situated towards the rear of the room in a dark, quiet corner.
All the better for intimacy.
Helen’s gaze raked over the menu, but she found that she was so nervous she could barely see what was written on it. She watched Richard out of the corner of her eye. He was studying the wine list intently – probably trying to decide between his personal favourites: Australian or South African Cabernet. It was a little scary actually: they had only been together for a short time, but yet Helen could read him like the Cosmo fashion pages. It had been the same with her previous partner, Jamie, who was as open and transparent as any man could get. Too transparent, probably. Jamie had been so open that he had one day informed Helen that he felt tied down, was bored with the rat race, and was taking off for a while to South Africa to ‘find himself’.
That was almost four years ago, and since then Jamie had not only found himself, but – handily enough for him, Helen thought – someone else. OK, she decided, seeing Richard close the wine list, if he orders Australian it’s a good omen, and South African is definitely a bad one.
“Ready to order?” the waitress asked pleasantly.
“Yes, thanks. Helen?” Ever the gentleman, Richard waited while she deliberated over lamb or pork. She eventually decided upon the lamb and Richard ordered medium-rare fillet steak.
“Wine?” the waitress enquired.
Helen smiled at Richard. “I’d better let the sommelier decide,” she said, knowing that Richard considered himself a bit of a wine expert.
Please, please, pick the Australian! Despite herself, Helen’s heart began to pound as she waited for his response. Richard waved the menu away and smiled at the waitress. “Thanks, but I think I’ll just throw caution to the winds tonight. Can you recommend anything?”
The girl paused for a moment. “Well, considering your choice of main course, I would definitely say the South African Guardian Peak Cabernet. It’s one of the most popular wines on our list, and it’s the perfect accompaniment to red meat dishes – lamb in particular,” she added, smiling at Helen.
Shit, shit, shit!
Richard beamed at her. “Perfect, we’ll have that then – thank you.”
The waitress collected their menus and left the table, Helen berating herself for being so foolish as to think that the bloody wine she and Richard were having for their meal should affect their relationship. She’d really have to try and stop with all this signs and omens nonsense. That was the kind of game only a child would play.
Another butterfly (there’s always a latecomer) rose up inside Helen’s stomach.
“So what have you been up to this week?” Richard reached across the table, and took her hand in his.
“Not much. Got the Carver Property and the Tip-Top Distribution contracts finalised and countersigned yesterday.” She feigned a shrug, and hid a smile. “A quiet week, really.”
“You did not!” Richard gave a disbelieving guffaw. “Bloody hell, you’re something else, Helen Jackson, do you know that?”
Helen had told him previously that XL had been chasing both contracts for some time, and there was a real danger that Carver’s in particular would opt for a rival consultancy. At the very last minute, and following an especially persuasive meeting with Helen, Ronnie Carver had changed his mind and signed a five-year contract with XL. Which meant that Helen could look forward to what could only be described as an obese bonus cheque at the end of the month. She filled him in on the story, while they made inroads on their starters.
“Wow,” Richard smiled and clinked her glass, “I think I’ll keep you. The ultimate career woman, huh?”
The little voice inside her brain was deafening. Tell him. Tell him now!
Helen took a deep breath. Relax, said the voice. You two get on well together and he really likes you. What difference could it make?
She gulped a mouthful of wine, and set her glass back down on the table.
“Richard?” she asked softly and the words were out before she could stop herself. “How do you feel about children?”
Shit, shit, shit, the voice berated her. It wasn’t supposed to come out so quickly – you were supposed to ease it into the conversation. Typical you, and your bloody size four-an’-a-halves!
Richard looked as though she had just asked him to eat a bull’s testicle.
“Children?” he repeated warily. “What kind of a question is that?”
Helen felt completely deflated. It was going to happen again – she just knew it.
“I mean, do you like children?” She tried to lighten the tone. “I mean, by any chance do you have some of your own or . . . or would you like some of your own?”
Oh God, this was getting worse by the minute, she thought.
Richard now looked as though he had been presented with a plate of bulls’ testicles.
“Helen, what the hell are you talking about? You know that I’ve never been married . . .” Before she could reply, his face changed. “Hang on a second . . . are you up the pole?” he hissed at her. “Because if you are, and you think you can trap me into fatherhood, then I think you’ve forgotten something. I don’t know what the hell you’ve been doing but, for the record, we haven’t even shagged properly, so it couldn’t be me! For Chrissake, Helen –”
“Forget it, Richard!” Helen reached for her bag, red-faced and in shock. How dare he? If he would behave like this over a mention of children, how the hell would he behave when he knew the truth? What had happened to the perfect gentleman?
Richard softened when he saw her expression. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that . . . it’s just I know I couldn’t have –”
“It’s not what you think, Richard – I’m not pregnant,” Helen interjected. “Not any longer, anyway.”
He looked at her with a bemused expression.
What the hell, she might as well put him out of his misery. “I have a three-and-a-half-year-old daughter that I haven’t told you about. As you and I were getting to know one another better, and becoming – I thought – more serious, I felt that you should know.”
“Helen . . . I . . . I’m sorry . . .” His voice trailed off, but by his expression, Helen knew all there was to know.
They were finished.
The usual story.
At that moment, the waitress appeared with their main course.
“I think I should go,” Helen stood up.
“No, stay – please. Tell me about your – your daughter.” The way he said it, it was as though Helen had just told him she had a severe case of leprosy.
She wasn’t about to stay just for the sake of it, not this time – not ever again. She’d played out this scenario too many times for one lifetime.
“No, I think I will go, actually. Thanks anyway – for dinner.”
Richard nodded slowly. “You’re welcome.” Suddenly he was being as formal as he had been that first day in her office. “I’ll phone you?” he added, almost automatically and certainly, Helen knew, untruthfully.
“Sure.”
Her feet must have been feeling sorry for her, because Helen didn’t feel them once as she walked dazedly up Grafton Street and towards the taxi rank. She tried to bite back tears as she got into the cab she had hailed with surprising ease. Then again, it was only nine o’clock. No one out enjoying themselves in Dublin on a Friday night came home early. No one but sad, spinster, single mothers like Helen.
A while later, the cab pulled up outside Nicola’s house in Stepaside, and Helen asked the driver to wait.
Soon after, she reappeared accompanied by a drowsy-eyed three-year-old version of herself, the little girl’s hair tossed, and her face red from pillow-marks. Helen knew Nicola had been surprised to see her home so early, but thankfully her friend knew better than to ask any questions.
Helen put her still half-asleep daughter in the back seat of the cab, closed the door and sat in the front passenger seat.
Tonight, she thought, staring straight ahead, and making it plain to the taxi-driver that she wasn’t interested in idle conversation, she couldn’t tolerate having that child anywhere near her.