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Dressed to kill in a slinky black dress, sandals with stiletto heels and my hair swept up, I fine-tuned my campaign in the taxi that had pulled up in front of the hotel on the dot of seven. The trip to the restaurant in posh Belgravia took twenty minutes through heavy traffic.
Feeling slightly wobbly, I stepped into the discreetly lit plush restaurant. I only had to give Kit’s name to the maître d’ before he ushered me to a table beside the window, through which I could glimpse the lights snaking along the Thames in the velvety night. Kit rose and kissed my cheek while the waiter fussed around me, placing a napkin in my lap, pouring water, and handing me the menu. There was the quiet murmur of a very exclusive and expensive restaurant and the smell of Michelin-star food.
We looked at each other across the table when all was calm again. I smiled, feeling like an actress about to play the role of her life—or a double agent risking everything to save her country. “Hi there,” I purred. “Nice to see you.”
“Hell, you’re beautiful,” Kit said. “There’s a glow to you tonight. Is it the new job?”
I smiled. “Maybe just the excitement of the big city. Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”
“Glad you liked them.” His eyes drifted from my face to my cleavage. “Nice dress. New?”
“Yes. I got a pile of stuff at Peter Jones today. Expensive, but as you said you’d cover any expenses, I sent the invoice to your accountant. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not, darling. It’s well worth it.”
“Thank you.” I turned my attention to the menu. “I think I’ll have the lobster and a salad. I don’t feel like a heavy meal. I’m rather stuffed after all I ate today.”
Kit nodded. “I’ll have the same. A full stomach would ruin the rest of the evening,” he added with a slow smile. He gestured to a waiter and made the order, adding a bottle of Bollinger—“to celebrate.”
How fecking obvious, I thought as I tried to look excited. But we’ll soon pour cold water on that. “Fabulous,” I chirped.
“Good day?” he asked.
“Very. But a bit tiring. I met my new staff this morning, then I had the press lunch, and then—” I paused “—I had tea with Majella.”
His eyes widened. “You did? But I thought she wasn’t keen on seeing you. Or something,” he ended. Did he look suddenly pale?
“She wasn’t really. But we got on fine.”
The colour came back to his cheeks. “Oh. Good. What did you talk about?”
I took a sip of water and reached for a bread roll. “Nothing much. She filled me in on her future plans and told me a little bit about the magazine. Then we just chatted about this and that. You know, girl stuff.”
“Oh. I see.” He let out a sound as if he’d been holding his breath. “Girl stuff, eh?”
I smiled innocently. “Yeah. She’s nice.”
Kit looked startled. “Nice? Majella? Never heard anyone say that.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “A bit hot in here, isn’t it?”
“I find it perfect. But then, I’m wearing a lot less than you in that suit.”
His gaze skimmed my body. “So you are.”
I looked at him, realising that where before I’d have found that look very hot, I no longer did. He only seemed pathetic and sleazy. What had I been thinking?
The champagne arrived in a cooler and was expertly opened by the sommelier. When we each had a brimming glass, I raised mine. “Cheers, Kit. Thanks for inviting me to this amazing restaurant.”
Kit raised his glass. “Cheers, sweetheart. Welcome to London. We’ll have lots of fun, I promise.”
I put down my glass and decided to launch my attack. “I’m sure we will. But I have to go back tomorrow and sort things out with The Knockmealdown News first.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s true.”
“I want to appoint Dan as editor. He’s very—”
“I don’t think he’d be up to the job.”
“You just don’t know him,” I argued. “But okay, maybe not him. Finola McGee’s coming back to Cloughmichael, I heard. Maybe she’d like her old job back?”
“I wouldn’t hire her. Too opinionated and rebellious.”
“Oh?” I widened my eyes. “You want someone softer, more pliable?”
Kit interrupted me. “Look, I have something to tell you. I’m appointing an editor from London to take over. She’s very experienced and will run the paper like clockwork. I also want to see a more serious tone in the paper. More about what’s happening in the world. So there’ll be a political column very soon.”
“And Finola McGee, the best political reporter in Ireland wouldn’t be able to do that?” I asked, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
“No. She’d be too...too controversial.”
I stared at him. “Really? And what would be wrong with that?” I paused when the waiters arrived with our lobsters. “Looks divine,” I cooed and picked up my lobster fork. “Mmm, gorgeous,” I mumbled through my mouthful.
He put a small piece of lobster into his mouth and chewed without enthusiasm. “So you have no objection? To my appointing a UK editor, I mean.”
I put down my fork. Time to go for the jugular. “Objection?” I said, lifting an eyebrow. “I don’t feel I can comment, as I’m supposed to be leaving. But I know exactly what kind of shite you’re up to, and I don’t like it.”
“What do you mean? Up to?” he asked, a note of annoyance in his voice.
I took a swig of champagne to steady my nerves. Then I put both hands on the table and fixed him with my eyes. “Kit,” I said in a voice so low he had to lean forward to hear me. “I just found out what you’ve been doing behind my back. I happened to bump into a woman from Keatings earlier today. She gave me some very interesting information.”
Kit, his face red, inhaled, as if to say something.
I held up my hand. “Shut up,” I said quietly, “or everyone in the restaurant will hear me.”
“Okay,” he muttered. “So talk.”
“Majella also filled me in on the circumstances of her so-called retirement. I won’t bore you with the details, but all I’ve seen so far of this rather unsavoury stew is making me sick. So—” I paused for effect, feeling an odd tingle of excitement as I saw the fear in his eyes. I had him.
“So...?” he wheezed.
“So, I want my old job back. I want a raise for everyone in the office too.” I smiled sweetly. “I also think you should rehire Majella.”
“Why should I? She’s a bitch.”
“And you’re a gobshite. If you don’t agree, I’ll accuse you of sexual harassment and make it very public.”
“You have no proof.”
“No? What about all those saucy text messages you sent me? I would qualify that as ‘sexting,’ actually. I saved them all. Including the one about you firing me if I didn’t sleep with you, accompanied by—” I winked “—some rather revealing pictures.”
“That was meant as a joke. I thought it’d turn you on.”
“It doesn’t look like a joke. And no, it didn’t. Nothing about you turns me on. Not even a close-up of you-know-what. So, yeah, I have some pretty good evidence right there.”
“That accusation will wear very thin in court.”
I laughed and picked up another piece of lobster. “What court? I’ll paste it all over the Internet. Much cheaper and a lot more fun. Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and hey, why not Pinterest too? The suffragettes out there will eat you alive.”
“I’ll deny it and sue you.”
I shook my head. “Come on, Kit, you know how it works. The story will be out there. Denying it and suing me will only make it worse. Mud sticks, you know.”
Kit’s face turned a sickly shade of green. “So, you’re not going to accept the position here after all? And you want your old job back, or you’ll paste my—all over the Internet?”
“You got it.”
He looked at me with such hatred I winced. “Very well. You’ve got me cornered. But what do I do about the press release? And the interviews? That’s all due to go out tomorrow.”
“There’s plenty of time to stop that. Just a couple of phone calls will do it.”
“It’ll make us look really bad. They’ll think something’s up.”
“And wouldn’t they be right? But I’m sure you can think of a plausible lie to tell them. You’re good at that. Lying, I mean.” I paused and then fired the next and final bullet. “I also found out who you’ve been networking with at Killybeg—a bunch of Irish Euro sceptics. Golf partners you said? More like partners in crime. Or politics, which to me is the same thing. But of course, that detail is nothing I can prove. You’d replace me with a British editor-in-chief, you said?”
“That was the plan.”
“And then, one by one you’d fire everybody on the staff and replace them too, right? With little Brexiters who will sneak in propaganda and spread it all around.”
Kit blanched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure you don’t. But that’s not going to happen now, thank goodness.” I got up. “I’m leaving now. I’ll be going back to Ireland tomorrow to get back to work. I’ll be busy if we’re to meet the new orders that Keatings will be placing.”
Kit stared at me, his eyes full of venom. “I’m seriously thinking of closing that paper down.”
I waved my phone at him. “You might be sorry,” I chanted.
“I might sell it. There’s this new publishing group that has been expressing an interest. They might be tougher to deal with than me.”
“Maybe they’ll be more professional. But whatever. I’m off.” I pushed my chair under the table. “Please don’t get up. I’ll see myself out. Thanks for dinner. It was truly delicious.”
He didn’t reply. I waggled my fingers at him and walked out, nodding to the waiter and telling the maître d’ that Mr Montgomery would like his bill and could he please get me a taxi. I shivered as I stood on the pavement despite the warm air. I had won the battle, but what about the war?
***
I checked out of the hotel that evening. The receptionist presented me with a bill for close to a thousand pounds.
“But the Montgomery Group said they’d pay my hotel bill,” I protested.
The girl gave me a cold stare. “We just had a call from them to say you’d have to settle the bill yourself.”
“Oh.” I gritted my teeth and gave her my credit card, knowing my account would be stripped to the last cent. I’d have to ask Dad for a loan.
I left the hotel and found a room at a small bed and breakfast near the airport. I didn’t want Kit or any of his thugs to find me. When I was finally tucked into bed, I called Majella and gave her the good news.
“You did it!” she whooped. “Christ, you’re good. Do you want a job? I could do with someone like you on my team.”
“Thanks, but I want to go back home and sort things out. Don’t think I should come back to London for a while anyway.”
“The offer will still stand if you change your mind. Can’t make you editor-in-chief, but you can be my assistant or something when I get my magazine back. If he doesn’t sell it from under me, of course.”
I turned in the bed, trying to make myself comfortable on the lumpy mattress. “He won’t. It makes too much money. So you’re stuck with him. But I doubt he’ll get involved in what you do. He’s such a chickenshit deep down.”
I hung up after having said goodnight and promised to be in touch next time I was in London. I snuggled under the polyester sheets and tried to go to sleep, happy at the thought of going home. But what a mess I had created. It would take a lot of work to clear it all up.
***
The heatwave broke the next morning. I arrived at Cork Airport after a bumpy flight, stepping onto the tarmac in heavy rain. I scurried into the terminal as fast as I could but still managed to get soaked to the skin. Dad was there to meet me. He threw his rain mac across my shoulders as we made our way to the parking lot and his car. We hurried to load my suitcase into the boot and got into the car, laughing as we banged the doors shut.
“Phew,” I exclaimed and grabbed an old cardigan from the back seat to dry my hair. “That’s some rainstorm.”
Dad dabbed his face with a hanky. “The weather changed about an hour ago. It was rather a wild drive here.” He grinned. “Great to have you back, if only for a few weeks. How was your trip?”
“Eventful,” I said, wondering if I should break the news to him then or wait until we were back in Cloughmichael. “I’ll tell you later, when we’re home.”
He nodded, his eyes on the road and the heavy rain. “Yes, we can talk then. This rain makes it hard to drive.”
“Back to a normal Irish summer, then.” I sighed, pulled the rain mac tighter around me, and turned up the heat.
Dad glanced at me. “We’ll be home soon. I got some soup and fresh bread for lunch. Sorry, that was all I could think of. I’m no cook, as you know. I would have asked Jonathan, but he has some visitor with him. A very cute woman, actually. Maybe he has a girlfriend.”
“What did you say?” I asked, wondering if I had misheard through the drumming of the rain and the sound of the heater.
“Girlfriend,” Dad shouted. “Jonathan—maybe he has one.” He shot a sideways look at me. “Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. You weren’t...you and him, I mean?”
“No, we’re just friends,” I said and looked out at the rainswept landscape. I bit my lip hard to stop the tears that threatened to well up. It couldn’t be true. Jonathan had hinted at deep feelings for me, but we had, without saying it, come to an understanding to keep things cool for a while. At least those were the vibes I got before I left. I’d probably read it all wrong.
Another failed relationship before it even started. I was probably doomed to be single for the rest of my life—just like Majella and all the other successful career women. What was it Miranda said? That in order for love to last, you have to give up a piece of yourself? That’s what Jules had done and Pandora too. And they were happy having done it. I closed my eyes. It was hard to accept. But it was there, and it was true. I shook my head to clear my mind. Love and feelings were too confusing right now. I had to sort out the office and the future of the paper.
“Jerry had some good news,” Dad said, his voice cutting into my daydream. “The insurance company agreed to pay the full value of the house. The fire was caused by a faulty router. So it wasn’t your fault after all.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It was considered an accident. So both your boss and Jerry will get compensation. He’s going to rebuild and make it more modern inside. The Knockmealdown News can move back in less than a year.”
“Great news. Jerry must be happy, even if he doesn’t own the paper anymore. But it’s still part of him.”
“Very much so. I met him at the pub down the road one evening. Liz introduced us. We had a long chat over some good beer. He’s a good lad.”
“Yes, he is. I’m sure he’s sorry he sold the paper to the Montgomery Group, but he had no choice.”
“No, he didn’t—then,” Dad said.
“What?”
Dad winked. “I’ll tell you later.”
“Tell me what?”
“You’ll see.”
“Come on, tell me now. What have you been up to?”
But Dad didn’t reply. He drove the last few miles humming a little tune, looking very pleased with himself. I knew it was useless to ask any further questions, and I had other things on my mind.