Someone Like You (26 page)

‘Are you a morning sex person?’ he asked, his voice hoarse. ‘I’d have thought from last night’s performance that you were a night owl.’

In response, Hannah wriggled until she was lying completely on top of him, exulting in the amazing sensation of her cool naked body against his sleep-warmed one. ‘I think I’m an every moment of the day sort of person,’ she said.

‘Good,’ he replied, pulling her head down to meet his.

Low-angled autumn sun lit up the front of Dwyer, Dwyer & James as Hannah walked towards it, swinging her handbag happily. The office was pretty now that it had been repainted in the firm’s trademark crocus yellow and white.

Hannah grinned. Everything felt pretty to her today. The dour-faced traffic warden who lingered at the bottom of the road was practically good-looking today, even though he’d given Hannah a parking ticket the week before. Being in love was a wonderful thing, she decided. Better than rose-coloured spectacles any day.

‘Morning, Hannah,’ said David James, climbing out of his silver Jag.

‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’ beamed Hannah.

David eyed her curiously. ‘Are you on happy pills or something?’ he teased.

‘No,’ she said, letting him open the door for her. ‘Just naturally happy, that’s all. You’ll never guess who I met last night,’ she added, knowing she shouldn’t say anything but unable to resist saying his name. ‘Felix Andretti.’

David’s brow furrowed. ‘Where?’ he asked.

‘At the theatre,’ she replied airily. ‘He seems like a nice man,’ she added, hoping for some titbit of information to drop from David’s lips.

‘He does?’ One eyebrow was raised sarcastically. ‘That doesn’t sound like the Felix I know and love,’ he remarked.

‘More of a professional playboy, I would have thought.

Nice isn’t the sort of word people use about Felix. They either love him or hate him. Women love him until he dumps them, and men sometimes hate him because he’s so bloody successful with the opposite sex.’

‘Really?’ Hannah said idly, shocked but trying to hide it. ‘I thought he was nice, anyhow.’ She was longing to ask more but daren’t.

‘Was he with anyone?’ David asked, standing at Hannah’s desk.

‘No,’ she said, wide-eyed with innocence.

David grinned and turned towards his office door. ‘He must be losing his touch,’ he added over his shoulder. ‘I’ve never seen him without a string of beautiful girls glued to him.’

Hannah had all morning to chew this over. Felix and a string of beautiful girls. She was too jealous to be flattered by the obvious fact that she, too, was beautiful if the godlike Mr Andretti considered her worthy of him. Instead, she mulled over the notion that the man she’d slept with on the first date was something of a lady-killer and always had a few women in tow, women he’d dump whenever the mood took him.

What had she expected, she thought jealously. Felix was thirty-seven, he must have had scores of girlfriends before this. What if he’d gone out with her to try and bed her and, once that had been accomplished, he’d no longer be interested? Perhaps that was why women hated him. For the second time in twenty-four hours, Hannah felt her heart skip a beat with shock. How stupid could she be to sleep with him on their first date. What sort of woman would he think she was?

She cast her mind frantically back to his departure that morning.

All he’d said when he left was, ‘Adios, bebe,’ giving her a passionate kiss on the doorstep and the promise that he’d phone. Well, not so much of a promise, more of an: ‘I’ll call.”

Feeling like a woman whose lottery numbers have just come up but who forgot, for once, to buy a ticket, Hannah sat gloomily at her desk all morning. What sort of an imbecile are you? she was mentally asking herself for about the hundredth time when a messenger boy appeared at her desk, hidden by a huge bouquet of the palest pink roses.

‘Oh!’ gasped Hannah. ‘For me?’

‘If you’re Hannah Campbell, then yes,’ said the messenger.

‘Sign here.’

She buried her nose in the flowers, trying to breathe in the fragrance but finding them curiously scent-free. Still, they were beautiful.

‘Who are they from?’ demanded the rest of the staff.

Hannah opened the card. ‘To Hannah, my beautiful, ripe peach. See you tonight. I’ll pick you up at home at eight.’

Happiness saturated every pore of her body. He didn’t think she was a stupid slut; he wanted to see her tonight after all. Bliss.

Leonie stared into the cage at the heavily drugged cat. He lay like a soft marmalade cushion, belly curled up and fat paws lifeless on the post-operative sheepskin blanket. Poor Freddie. Removing the elastic bands he’d swallowed had been touch and go, and Angie had been understandably nervous about operating on such an elderly cat.

‘He’s fourteen, he might die under the anaesthetic,’ she’d said worriedly to Leonie.

But there’d really been no option once Mrs Erskine was told what Freddie’s chances were. She’d broken into sobs as she held her beloved cat in her arms, saying he was her only comfort in life since her husband had died. ‘Please operate. I know he’s old, but so am I, and I’d be lost without him.’

Leonie had a lump in her throat as Angie patted the old lady on the arm, firmly helping her from the surgery into the waiting room, while Leonie held on to the distressed cat. But Freddie had come through the operation with flying colours, his intestine yielding five small elastic bands which would have certainly killed him if they hadn’t been removed.

She reached into the cage and patted his soft fur gently.

‘You’re a fighter, aren’t you, Freddie?’ she said softly, watching his body rise and fall with deep breaths. Louise, the other practice nurse, had a few phone calls to make to other anxious owners and she’d volunteered to phone Mrs Erskine to tell her the good news. The old lady would be so happy. But Freddie wouldn’t be going home for a few hours until he’d slept off the anaesthetic.

Leonie checked the cages next door. Freddie’s neighbours were two female cats who’d been spayed that afternoon.

Both were still knocked out. But three cages down, the inhabitant was wide awake. He was a black torn who’d been enjoying life as a feline Don Juan in his neighbourhood for many years, fathering countless litters. The knife had finally fallen on Tommy, who’d just been neutered as part of Angie’s Wednesday afternoon surgery. Hissing from the back of his cage, he glared at Leonie fiercely, as if he knew exactly what had been done to him and was determined to wreak revenge for the loss of his tomhood.

‘Is tonight the night for romance?’ enquired Angie, coming out of the cramped surgery toilet having changed into her going-home clothes.

‘Be quiet,’ whispered Leonie in horror. ‘Somebody might hear you. No one else knows - and yes, tonight is the night.’

Leonie was already regretting everything about her blind date. She regretted having put the personal advert in the paper in the first place, and she regretted telling anyone about it. So far, the only people who knew were Hannah, Emma and Angie. But they were quite enough. The girls had been sweet about the whole idea, while Angie kept mentioning it with increasing excitement, as if Leonie would be announcing her engagement any day. If it hadn’t been for Hannah’s calm and sensible encouragement, Leonie might well have thrown all the replies in the bin.

Her ‘statuesque blonde divorcee’ advert had warranted ten replies, two of which were from men who obviously assumed she was a hooker offering a bit of French polishing under the guise of respectability. One respondent had sent a note in splotchy Biro, telling her ‘a mother of children should be ashamed to be throwing herself at men like a brazen hussy’. She considered framing it for posterity but decided against it on grounds of decency. The other seven sounded reasonably normal. Well, semi-normal. But then, as Leonie had spent a month deliberating, what exactly was ‘normal’?

Was the man who said he liked golf going to be the type who talked of nothing else but handicaps and would refuse to spend any summertime daylight hours with her when he could be out on the course? Or would the ‘good humoured professional, loves the theatre and literature’

turn out to be a card-carrying snob who’d spit at the sight of the copy of Hello! on Leonie’s kitchen table and insist on reading Kafka in bed?

Hannah had been thrilled at the number of replies Leonie had received. ‘I told you there were scores of lonely single men out there who just want to meet someone,’ she said proudly when Leonie had phoned with her exciting news. ‘Which ones are you going to contact?’

‘I thought just the best one,’ Leonie answered, still hung up on the idea that she’d only need to meet one and that would be it.

Hannah said nothing to that but asked Leonie to read out a couple of them. They both agreed that Bob - ‘tall, forty-something, losing hair but not my sense of humour’

sounded the best.

‘Hold on to the rest of the replies,’ Hannah advised sensibly. ‘And if Bob turns out to be a complete nutter, then you can phone up the others.’

Leonie agreed but secretly thought that Bob sounded as though he might very well be the man of her dreams. His answer to her advert had been everything she’d ever fantasized about: ‘I’ve never done anything like this before. Help!

I’m forty-something and my last relationship broke up a year ago. I don’t have a clue how to get into this dating thing - it’s all changed since I was young. I love children, animals, hill-climbing and the cinema. This is the first advert I’ve ever answered and I hope that it’s fate that we should both meet the first time we try this. So should we actually meet?

The second-last sentence had sealed things for Leonie.

She lived for the idea of fate, kismet and destiny; the idea of lovers who lived worlds apart but met by chance, purely because they were destined for each other in the great cosmos of love …

‘Where are you meeting Mr Wonderful, then?’ Angie asked, putting on lipstick.

‘The China Lamp,’ Leonie said. He’d said he’d be sitting on the left-hand side, wearing jeans and a tweed jacket.

He’d had a lovely voice on the phone too: soft and cultured.

She’d thought that the Chinese restaurant in Shankhill was far enough away from Greystones for her not to meet anyone she knew, but she might. To do so would be terminally embarrassing.

‘OhmiGod, am I mad to be doing this?’ she said out loud. ‘I mean, I’m forty-two years old and I’m going on a blind date. This is insane, isn’t it?’

‘No it’s not. It’s perfectly normal, modern stuff,’ Angie said, unperturbed.

‘What if he’s some weirdo? Maybe I should cancel, or simply not turn up.’ Panic was beginning to set in. This was the final step, much more final than sending off an advert or answering letters sent to an anonymous post office box. That was practically child’s play. Nobody knew you, nobody could contact you unless you wanted them to. This was something else.

‘Relax, will you. He’s probably telling all his pals he’s scared out of his mind in case he’s going to meet this sex-starved woman who links up with unsuspecting men via the personals for wild rampant sex.’

Leonie shuddered as she changed out of her nurse’s blue tunic. ‘I’m beginning to feel like that. Normal people don’t have to meet up like this, do they?’

‘They do if all their friends are living in married or cohabiting bliss and the only offers they get are from bored husbands who think they’re game for an uncomplicated quickie,’ Angie retorted. ‘You haven’t told anyone else about this, I assume?’

Leonie grinned ruefully. She hadn’t breathed a word to her mother. Not that Claire would have disapproved of the idea. On the contrary, she’d have been delighted to see her daughter actually do something to change her life if it meant escaping from the endless-loneliness of divorced parenthood. It was just a tad embarrassing to tell your nearest and dearest that you’d resorted to the personal ads for … well, a personal life. Which was why she hadn’t said anything to the kids either. They thought she was going into Dublin for dinner with Emma and Hannah.

It would be too humiliating for them to discover - and subsequently to tell the blissfully happy Ray - that their mother was going on blind dates, when her ex-husband was about to marry the Best Dressed, Cleverest, Most Beautiful lawyer in the greater Boston area. God, she hated that bitch.

‘Give me his phone number,’ Angie commanded.

‘His phone number?’

‘In case he does turn out to be a weirdo, stoopid. Then when you don’t turn up for work tomorrow, I can notify the police and your whole sordid personal life will come out in the tabloids.’

Angie’s joke had the desired effect. Leonie started laughing helplessly.

‘I don’t know what’s so bloody funny,’ said Tim, the senior vet grumpily, arriving with a limping Great Dane the size of a large pony. ‘I’ve got to stay late and operate on Tiny here to get a splinter out of his paw. Can you stay late, Leonie?’

‘No, she can’t,’ Angie answered sharply. ‘She’s worked late twice already this week. Get Louise to do it.’

Leonie waved gratefully to Angie and, grabbing her coat and handbag, hurried out the door.

Back home, World War Three had broken out and Leonie was dragged in to referee before she’d even taken her coat off. The previous day, taking advantage of Leonie’s rare plans for an evening out, Mel had asked could she and Abby have some schoolfriends over for dinner. No problem, Leonie had said, and then dutifully trudged round the supermarket in order to buy the vegetarian sausages and veggie grills that were currently the most popular food group with figure-conscious Greystones teenagers. However, Danny had arrived home with uninvited guests - two equally large, gangling students from college - and as it had been hours since their last enormous meal in the student canteen, they’d rampaged through the fridge, eating all Mel and Abby’s dinner along with the potato salad Leonie had earmarked for her lunch the next day.

‘He doesn’t even like vegetarian food!’ shrieked Mel to her mother, eyes glinting with a mixture of tears and sheer rage.

‘It’s my home too and you should have said if you wanted to keep your girlie food for your girlie friends,’