True Colours (7 page)

Now she smiled knowingly like everything was under control, like her life was just perfect.

‘
Busy, you know how it is. The Institute’s going to be fabulous. Lots of courtyards and water features to keep everyone relaxed. And we’ve almost settled on the colour scheme. It’ll be very modern. Senor Marquez wants to use Miroesque murals throughout the public spaces, so I’m getting designs drawn up and looking for an artist; and he wants lots of sculpture.’

Tom nodded sagely, secretly delighted that she seemed to be settling into working in Dublin so easily. She had spent so many years away that he’d often wondered if she was afraid to come back. Spain was a bigger market he knew, but all through the Celtic Tiger economic explosion, when Dublin had become a thriving European capital, he had been secretly hoping she’d come back home and grow her business in Ireland. With the economic collapse he’d almost given up hope, but now here she was.

At the end of the day he was delighted with her success, but he missed her, found the house soulless without her pencils and pens and paints scattered around the place, her t-shirts drying on the radiators, makeup scattered all over the tiny bathroom – and he missed their chats in the evening in front of the fire, catching up on the day’s news. Studying in Barcelona had been a wonderful opportunity, a chance to get to know her mother’s people as much as to follow her dream, but he’d known as soon as she had told him that it would pull them apart, that she was flying the nest. She’d been so excited, so thrilled, that he wouldn’t have put a damper on it for anything in the world. But he’d never forget that night: coming in late and finding the house unexpectedly quiet, no pop music playing from her bedroom, no TV blaring from the living room; finding her in the kitchen, her hands idle in the cold washing up water, staring dreamily out the kitchen window. She’d turned when she’d heard him open the door, her face breaking into a smile, ‘Guess what?’…

‘
So what did the doctor say? When are they letting you out?’

‘
Next week he reckons.’

‘
Then plenty of bed rest?’

Tom grimaced, ‘So he says…’

‘
Definitely plenty of bed rest Dad. You don’t have a car accident and almost lose your leg on the same day and then go running off around the woods like nothing has happened.’

‘
That’s right Tom, you should listen to her you know. I don’t want you turning up back in here, a week after we kick you out. We don’t have a revolving door policy here – not enough beds.’

Alex turned, recognising the doctor’s broad Cork accent. He had appeared behind her, his hands thrust into his trouser pockets, his white coat undone. In his early forties, he could have passed for a Hollywood movie star but for his thick-rimmed glasses. As it was, she thought he bore more than a passing resemblance to Clark Kent, kept expecting him to rip off his white coat and leap out the window.

He’d certainly pulled some superhero stunts to get Tom Ryan fixed up from what she’d been able to glean, after whatever had happened to land him in an ambulance roaring through the streets of Dublin to St Vincent’s. At this stage, she’d given up asking for the details of the accident, had put two and two together and reckoned she wasn’t far wrong in assuming he’d finally crashed his Land Rover. So now, instead of worrying about what had happened, she was focusing on his recovery, on working out what on earth they were going to do when he came out of hospital.

The doctor’s voice interrupted her thoughts, ‘I’m just in, but I’ll be along later Tom, to have a proper look at you. How’re you feeling today?’

‘
Better thanks, still a bit sore all right, but that’s to be expected.’

The doctor nodded, ‘The old man said you were a tough old bird. Most people would be climbing the walls by now. You’ll have to expect a bit of discomfort with that amount of shrapnel but we’ll have a chat about your pain relief when I come back around.‘ He threw Alex a disarming grin, ‘You’ll have to keep an eye on him, chain him to a chair when he gets home.’

She laughed, ‘You’ve obviously got his measure.’

‘
Not so sure about that, but I got a tip-off from a very reliable source…’ tapping his nose with his forefinger, he nodded to her and backed out of the ward, a glint in his eye.

Smiling her goodbyes, Alex turned back to her father with a frown. ‘What does he mean shrapnel?’

Tom shrugged. ‘Just the accident I guess; figure of speech. His dad’s ex Irish army. Served in the Congo as well. He knows the score.’

‘
So he’s had plenty of experience of stubborn old military goats has he?’ Alex tried to hide her grin.

‘
Reckon he has girl, I reckon he has.’ Tom Ryan shrugged again, would have blessed himself if she hadn’t been eyeing him suspiciously. Thank God she didn’t know the truth.

EIGHT

‘
What do you mean you met a guy in a cab and he’s taking you to dinner?’ Tiffany’s New York accent was always harsher when she was shrieking. She shrieked a lot – Caroline had known what was coming next, had been holding her rose gold BlackBerry Bold at arm’s length as Tiffany replied. Now, she brought it back to her mouth so she could speak.

‘
Exactly what I said. I can’t say no now can I? That would be too rude. And I don’t know how to get in touch with him anyway.’

Standing in her dressing room, the tiny beads on her La Perla push-up bra sparkling under the spotlights like tiny sugar crystals, Caroline reached up to drag another dress along the rail in the glass-fronted wardrobe, her mind back on the problem of what to wear tonight, only half-focused on her conversation with Tiffany.

‘
But he could be anyone...’

Caroline cut in, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, he’s in the Royal Navy for goodness sake, he was going to the Embassy.’ Perhaps it was the disbelief in her friend’s voice that riled her, or the fact that actually, maybe, she was right, but Caroline found herself snapping...’And we’re going to dinner, not to bed. It’ll be in a public place.’

Caroline knew she sounded tart but she couldn’t help it. Tiffany hadn’t a clue about men. No sooner had they graduated from the Sorbonne than she’d ended up in Boston, in a mausoleum of a house making cupcakes for church socials, convinced her life was perfect with her university professor husband, Bart. Bart! What sort of a name was that?

‘
I do hope you’re not going to bed. Does he know about Sebastian, does he know you’re engaged?’

‘
Of course!’

‘
Caroline...’ Tiffany’s tone was warning. ‘Did you tell him?’

‘
I’m wearing a rock Tiffany, the Wingfield Sapphire, you can’t exactly miss it.’ Unless you’re wearing gloves, Caroline paused, wincing, waiting for Tiffany to put two and two together. Thankfully she didn’t.

‘
Good, just so you’ve got it straight from the start.’

‘
Of course everything’s straight. Honestly Tiff... as if...’

‘
I’m calling you later. About nine your time. Leave your phone on. Where are you going for dinner?’

‘
I’ve no idea yet.’

‘
What if Sebastian sees you? Or one of his friends. It’s Dublin, Caroline, not Paris. You’ll be seen. Those Irish don’t understand about...about, well, affairs, the way the French do.’

‘
What do you mean the way the French do?’ Caroline tried to sound affronted, ‘I’m not having an affair. And it’s not a French thing anyway. You Americans aren’t much better, think of Bill and Monica.’

‘
Exactly! Look at Bill and Monica, look what happened there.’

Caroline let out a snort. She wasn’t in the mood for a row with her oldest school chum right now.

‘
Look, I’m not hiding anything. He could be selling me insurance.’

‘
Hmm, I bet it’ll look just like he’s selling you insurance. When did your insurance agent last take you out to dinner?’

‘
Oh, I don’t know...look, I’ve got to go. Don’t fuss. It’ll all be fine. Love you darling, I really must fly...’

Caroline clicked off her phone and looked at it for a moment, deep in thought.

Tiffany had a point. How could she have dinner on her own with a man when half the city knew she was engaged to Sebastian Wingfield? And what if someone saw them? Dublin was a ridiculously small city – everyone knew everyone else. Tiffany was right – what was acceptable, normal in fact in Paris, just didn’t wash here. Biting her lip, Caroline leaned back against the marble vanity unit, the chill stone cutting into the fine mesh of her low-cut panties.

All she needed was to be photographed coming out of a restaurant – like one of those actresses caught out and about with their leading man, or worse, one of those tarty women who followed footballers around. Tiffany was right. She couldn’t be seen out with him in a public place.

So what should she do?

She could cancel – leave a note with the hotel reception desk, say she had been called away. Would that work? She was sure it would, but deep inside she felt a bitter twist of disappointment. She was looking forward to dinner, looking forward to discovering more about the mysterious and, let’s face it, incredibly sexy Peter. Once Sebastian didn’t find out, there was really no problem. What the eye didn’t see and all that...The key was keeping it all discreet. And they were only going out to dinner – it wasn’t as if she was going to cancel the wedding on the basis of one liaison dangereuse that might or might not happen. It was just a bit of fun. And if anything did...Caroline drew in a sharp breath. She could feel something happening low down in her stomach that made her want to plunge her hand into her panties and writhe against the basin, oh good God....if it did, AND IT MIGHT NOT...then it would be one last fling before she tied the knot. Voilà, c’est tout.

It was entirely possible that he’d turn out to be very boring and that would be it. Unlikely but possible. She looked at the phone, still in her hand, pouting.

She could ask him up.

Caroline shook her head, amazed that she’d even considered the idea. If anyone found out she’d had a strange man in her apartment?...And what if he did turn out to be dangerous? Caroline felt a smile flicker at the corner of her mouth There was no if in that question, she knew damn well he was dangerous...she felt a thrill of excitement deep inside, oh God. They needed to go somewhere private...and in a private car...but there was no way Peter would fit into her tiny BMW Z9 sports car...and where could they go?

Then she had it. She flicked the keys on her BlackBerry, dialled the Four Seasons Hotel.

‘
Concierge please.’ She was put straight through. ‘This is Caroline Audiguet- O’Reilly. I need a limousine for eight o’clock this evening, for two people, but I’d like a large one with a private passenger area - you know, one with a partition between the driver and the rear seats.’ She paused as the concierge made a note, ‘And I need a hamper. Dinner for two and a couple of bottles of Bolly.’ She nodded as he made some suggestions, ‘Perfect, that sounds lovely.’

She clicked the phone to off, a smile creeping across her face. Perfect. The hotel had its own limousine service for residents – the Mercedes S-Class would pick them up outside and where would they go? Somewhere they could see the sea, or up the mountains maybe...yes there was a lovely spot up in the Wicklow Mountains that Sebastian had taken her too once, miles away from anywhere.

Perfect. A picnic in the mountains.

She’d better get a move on, decisions had to be made.

Turning back to the wardrobe Caroline leafed through her dresses and pulling one out, inspected it. Too sexy? Could you be too sexy? It was Herve Leger, a black plunge-neck bandage dress, made of wonderful stretchy stuff that clung to her boyish frame, giving her curves that weren’t normally there. Sophisticated and flattering. Perfect for meeting your insurance man. Caroline fought a mischievous smile, drawing in a deep breath tingling with anticipation. Would anyone see them? What would she tell Sebastian if they were spotted? She could feel a nag of worry pulling at her stomach, but it was positively eclipsed by excitement.

NINE

Alex’s phone began to ring the moment the wheels of her car crunched on the gravel in her drive. For a second, she gripped the steering wheel, sighing deeply, willing it to stop. The sound of the ring tone ramped, positively demanding her attention. Finally, she gave in, and reached for it. Just as it stopped. The story of her life. It was probably Marina wanting to know how the day had gone. Moments later the phone pipped, telling her she had a message. She was right. Marina no doubt desperate to know if her meeting with Venture Capital had been a success. But whatever about pretending to her dad that everything was going great, right now she wasn’t ready to lie to Marina and get all enthusiastic about the new project. She’d call her later.

Hauling her briefcase from the footwell of the passenger seat, Alex climbed out of the car. She’d managed to hold it together for most of the day, but now, yards from the front door of her pale pink Victorian cottage, weariness hit her like a hangover. Above her the dense canopy of foliage spilling over the drive from the neighbouring wood caught the breeze, the leaves rustling, whispering their sympathy. And from behind the house, the distant pull of the turning tide added its soothing voice. Thank God she was home.

Leaving her briefcase on the floor of the black and white tiled hall, closing the front door firmly behind her, she felt like a snail retreating into its shell. A warm pink shell, with central heating and loads of hot water, and at the very end of a leafy lane with woodland all around it, where no one could find her.