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We were busy the next few days, which helped me turn my mind away from the clinch with Kit. He tried to call me and left messages on my voicemail, but I didn’t return them. I sent him a brief text message, saying I’d call him back “soon.” The calls stopped and were replaced by very suggestive text messages on WhatsApp, including a selfie of him naked, wet from the shower, with the caption “look what you get if you practise.” It made me giggle, but I didn’t reply. I didn’t know how to respond but had to admit to myself he looked pretty good from every angle.
I buried myself in work, getting stuck into the weight loss feature and the historical scandals articles. Dan took a few candid shots for my editor column, and I asked Jonathan to dig up some good stories for the “Fifty Shades of History” piece.
We announced the coming features in the online edition of the paper, and Dan got bold and said we should have a weekly weigh-in at the gym every Friday. He had got a few of the lads from the rugby club to join in, and Fidelma and Sinead managed to dragoon two of their friends to take part. “They’ve been yo-yo dieting for years,” Fidelma said. “Now they can get serious about losing weight.”
Joe, the personal trainer at the gym, had no objections to leading the project. It would help his business, he declared. To my utter surprise, Pandora called me one evening and offered to help. “I’d like to launch the campaign at our new gym,” she said. “And then we could do a raffle for a free day at the spa. Facial, massage, pool, free lunch. How’s that?”
“Gosh, that’s very generous,” I replied.
“I think it’ll be great for publicity,” she said. “And fun. All I ever see are the guests and they’re sooo boring. I’d love to join and help out with the campaign. I’d like to meet real people instead of these rich dudes who’re only interested in golf and food. And the women? Never seen a duller bunch. Can’t talk about anything except eyebrows and nails and clothes. Please let me help out. I could be campaign manager or something.”
I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. Pandora, the trophy wife wanted to help us out? “Don’t you have to ask Richard for permission before you hand out free days at the spa?”
Pandora let out a throaty laugh. “Richard? Nah, I run this show. And it’s mostly my dad’s money that went into this hotel. He hasn’t much of a say in the running of it. I married him for his looks, not his brain.”
I smirked. So, Richard was the trophy husband, not the other way around, despite all his posturing and pretending to be the boss. “That’d be brilliant. Thank you, Pandora.”
“You’re welcome. But all of this is on one condition—that the whole campaign is focused on health, not on being super skinny.”
I considered this for a moment and realised she was right. It had to be more about health, not looks. “Yes,” I said after a while. “You’re so right. That’s exactly what it should be about. Can I hand it all over to you? And then you and the girls can work together.”
“Fabulous,” Pandora exclaimed. “This’ll be such a blast.”
“It’ll take the pressure off me too. We’ll work out the details later.”
“Wonderful. This’ll be so much fun. I can get Richard to take over in reception.”
I hung up, still smiling. Wait till Dessie heard about it. She wasn’t overly fond of Richard after all the misery he’d put her through when she was young. Now, here he was as Pandora’s lapdog. The mills of God grind slowly, I thought. I had always believed that everyone eventually got their just deserts, now I felt Richard was getting his. And Dessie had finally found the happiness she deserved. Maybe I would also one day find mine? I felt sure it would happen. Ever the optimist, that’s me.
***
Later that evening, Jonathan invited me to his place to look through some material he had come across. He also said we had to work out a deal about his involvement in the magazine. I sighed. I couldn’t afford to pay him. But I had an idea he might like.
“How about a bit of bartering?” I asked as I joined him on the Chesterfield couch in his living room.
“Bartering?”
“Yeah. You know, offering something instead of money for a job.”
“What’s the something you have to offer?”
I pushed away the cheeky response I would have given in normal circumstances. “You need an editor for the book you’re working on, don’t you?”
“Yes, but...?”
I pointed at my chest. “Here she is! I’m an editor, you know. And I’ll edit your book in exchange for your work on the historical series.”
He looked at me for a moment. “That sounds like a very good exchange of services. I would normally pay more than five hundred euros for an edit of a forty-thousand-word book. It would be a full copy edit, two passes and proofreading?”
I nodded. “That’s right. And in exchange you would write a weekly piece about an historical saucy scandal. Does that seem fair to you?”
“Not usually, no. But for this magazine? Absolutely.”
“Deal.” I pretended to spit into my hand before I held it out.
Jonathan laughed and shook my hand so hard I squealed. “Oops. Sorry.”
I shook my hand in the air. “You have a very firm grip for a—” I stopped abruptly. I was going to say “gay guy” but realised in time what a faux pas that would be.
“A what?”
“A historian,” I said, trying to cover up my mistake. “I mean, you don’t look the bodybuilder type or anything.”
He shrugged. “No, I’m more of a nerd, really. Unlike your boss, who’s kind of bulky in all the right places, no?”
“No. No, no, no!” I put my hands over my face. “Listen, about what happened at the party. I know you saw me with Kit. It was a mistake. I was a little tipsy and got carried away. I’ve been kicking myself ever since, wishing it hadn’t happened.” I sighed and looked at him. “Oh God, how I wish that hadn’t happened. It was so utterly stupid. I don’t even like the guy.”
“But he turns you on? Isn’t that what you said?” The concern in his eyes touched my heart in a strange way.
“Yes,” I replied. “That’s my problem with that man. I don’t like him, and I doubt he likes me very much, but we’re so drawn to each other physically. It’s something I can’t control. I don’t know what to do. What would you do?”
“Me?” He looked alarmed. “Can’t say I’ve ever been in that situation. I’ve been in love, of course. And my heart has been broken twice in my life. It hurts a lot. The last time, I was totally pinned to the wall for over a year. But my work and doing the dig and writing this book helped. It’s good to get so involved in a project that you love. All-absorbing and healing.”
I took his hand. “I’m sorry. I know how hard that is. I’m still trying to get over someone. Nearly there, but I don’t think the scars will ever be gone. Strange. We were only involved a couple of weeks, but...”
“And now you have the hots for that other guy? Love and lust. Sometimes they don’t come together.”
“That’s true.” Our eyes met. I suddenly knew that here was a person I could truly love—whom I loved already despite only knowing him for a few weeks. But it was a spiritual love, not a physical one. The look in his eyes mirrored my thoughts. He felt the same for me. It wasn’t about sex and probably never would be, but our spirits seemed to meet and entwine that moment as the warm summer wind blew in through the open window, and a lone blackbird sang in the garden below.
Jonathan slowly withdrew his hand. “I can’t tell you what to do. I should say ‘Don’t get involved,’ but that is something you have to decide for yourself.”
“I know. I’m a grown-up. I’ll handle it.” I looked at the papers on the coffee table. “Okay, so let’s get stuck in. What have you got here?”
“A few sad stories. I think we should start with this one.” He pulled out a piece of paper. “This is a story of a monk and a nun whose love letters were found in the old garden of the little abbey outside town.”
“But there’s only one wall and an arch left.”
“That’s right. But they did an archaeological dig there and found all kinds of things. The letters were in a silver box, which saved them from deteriorating.”
“Okay. Go on. What’s the story?”
“Around the middle of the twelfth century, Father Peter O’Malley came to the abbey to work on the books the monks were making there. Prayer books, I think. You know, the ones with those beautiful illustrations. They’re in Trinity College along with the Book of Kells. Anyway, while he was there, he came into contact with a young nun, Sister Anna. I think the nuns used to serve food to the monks or something. In any case, they fell in love and even had a child.”
“Wow,” I gasped. “How did they manage that?”
“There was a secret tunnel between the convent and the monastery. Built as an escape route in case the Vikings attacked. They used it to meet up somewhere.”
“So what happened?”
“We don’t really know. All we have are these letters. They’re quite steamy even by today’s standards. We also have an old portrait of Sister Anna, painted before she joined the convent.” He pulled out a photocopy.
I peered at the portrait of a young woman in a medieval headdress. “She’s very beautiful. Just look at those eyes.”
“I’d say she drove Father Peter mad with desire.”
“Can we print the letters? Or parts of them anyway?”
“The originals are in Latin. But a friend of mine who’s a Latin scholar translated some of them a few years ago. I’ll get in touch with her and see if she’d agree to let me publish them—or parts of them anyway.”
“We’d only need the story and a bit of a letter—a saucy bit, if that’s possible.”
He winked at me. “Definitely. And I’ll e-mail you a better copy of the portrait. That’s also in the Trinity archives.”
I got up. “Good. So that’s all settled then. Must get back to finishing the online issue that’ll go live later this week. We’ll announce the weight loss feature and the history one too. Then I have to—God help me—speak to Kit and clear all this with him before we start writing it up.”
Jonathan punched me playfully on the shoulder. “Stay strong. Don’t give in. And don’t listen to his sweet talking.”
“I’ll do my best.” I blew him a kiss and walked down the stairs, feeling our friendship had taken quite a different turn.
***
Even though my talk with Jonathan had strengthened my resolve to resist Kit, his low, sexy voice on the phone later that night made me tingle in all the wrong places. Maybe it was the warm night, the two glasses of wine I had drunk, or the fact that I was in bed wearing only the flimsiest of nightgowns, but our conversation veered off into forbidden territory—forbidden for me, but not him.
“Are you in bed?” he started. “You sound a little sleepy, so you must be. Wish I was there with you.”
“Were,” I mumbled, stretching out my legs under the sheet.
“What?”
“It has to be ‘wish I were.’ Sorry, I’m a bit of a grammar police. Comes with the territory.”
“What territory? Being a bluestocking?”
“No, being an editor. It’s too hot for stockings.”
“Oh yes, I know,” he purred. “But I love the image of you in stockings. I can imagine sliding my hand over the top and feeling the silky skin of your—”
I sat up. “Kit, I didn’t call you to have phone sex. This was meant to be a professional call.”
“What profession would that be, then?” he inquired, his silky voice brimming with laughter.
“Shut up and listen,” I snapped.
“Yes, my little dominatrix. Are you going to whip me? In that case, should I be naked?”
I closed my eyes for a second, pushing away the image of a naked Kit. “No. Please try to concentrate on what I’m saying, okay?”
“Okay, sweet girl. Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
“Well, first of all, we have a few additional ideas for the magazine, but that doesn’t really—or shouldn’t—concern you. I have the powers to make all the executive decisions for the newspaper and the magazine, right?”
“Of course, my dear.”
“Then,” I breezed on, “there’s just the matter of distribution. I sent a copy of the magazine to Keatings. They’re the biggest—or I should say the only—bookstore chain in Ireland. They’re also the main sellers of magazines and newspapers here. You don’t own them, do you?”
“Keatings? No, not as far as I know.”
“Thought not.” I lay back against the pillows again. “I’m hoping they’ll want to distribute the magazine to all their bookstores in Ireland. If they do, we could be looking at a huge boost in circulation. Just an idea I have. They’ll probably say no, but you have to try everything.”
“How many stores do they have?”
“More than sixty. They’re also in Northern Ireland, which makes them a UK chain too,” I babbled on, eager to keep the conversation cool.
“Sounds good. How does this involve me?”
“I think it could mean signing some kind of contract. If they agree, that is.”
“I see,” he muttered. “Well, if they agree to distribute, tell them to get in touch with my lawyers. I’ll send you their contact details.”
“Okay, I will.” I paused. “So that’s it then.”
“Not quite.” He was purring again. “I have something to ask you.”
I sighed. “Please, Kit. I thought I made it clear I’m not going to—”
“I’m leaving,” he interrupted. “Going back to London.”
“Oh. Okay,” I said, keeping my voice neutral. “Have a great trip back.”
“Not so fast. I’m not going until the day after tomorrow. How about dinner here at the hotel tomorrow evening? If you dare, that is,” he added.
“Of course I do. What time?”
“Eight o’clock?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Looking forward to seeing you. Wear something—”
I hung up before he had a chance to finish. I curled up in a ball under the sheet. Oh God, what have I done? Agreed to have dinner at his hotel. How very unwise. But I had done it to prove to myself that I could resist him. If I didn’t, I’d lose my self-respect forever. Why does it have to be like this? Feeling physically drawn to a man I don’t like very much and loving a man platonically, who would never— Or would he? I stopped my thoughts right there. I had to clear this up once and for all. It was late, but it couldn’t wait. I had to know.
I got out of bed, flung on the linen shirt I used as a dressing gown in the summer, and marched across the flat, through the front door, and rang Liz’s doorbell, long and hard.
A few moments later, the door opened, and Liz, in pink pyjamas, a sleep mask on top of her head, peered sleepily at me. “What’s going on? Is there a fire?”
“No. Sorry to wake you. But I have a very important question to ask you.”
Liz blinked. “What did you say?”
“I have a very—”
“Hang on.” Liz dug in her ear and removed something that seemed to be stuck there. “Earplugs. I wear them because of the dawn chorus at four in the morning. Go on.”
“Okay.” I cleared my throat. “I have to ask you—” I lowered my voice “—is Jonathan really...Is he...gay?” I whispered.