A Heat of the Moment Thing Page 17

  She ushered me into Mischief, an intimate little boutique where all the price-tags were hidden. I felt afraid. Very afraid.

  An aging woman with serious mutton-versus-lamb issues approached us. She smoothed her elegant clothes with a heavily-bejewelled hand and offered us a plastic smile.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” she said, adding icy emphasis to the last word as she looked me up and down.

  Then, far more warmly as her eyes swept over Dani, “I’m Sue-Ann. How can I be of assistance?”

  Mission explained, Sue-Ann trotted around the shop gathering armload after armload of garments for me to try on, then hovered like a nosy butler, killing me by degrees with her ‘that is so You’ comments.

  Ever-conscious of my pear shape, I honed in on looser options and figure-hiding dresses. Dani pronounced them ‘matronly’ and ‘boring’ and even, with increasing agitation, downright ‘ugly’.

  “Becs, no! It just doesn’t look good.” She threw up her hands in despair, then rounded on Sue-Ann. “That’s it! Stop! No more dowdy stuff. Don’t listen to a word she says. She needs sleek, sexy, stunning, young. You don’t want to look like his mother, Becs.”

  I started to protest, but Dani silenced me with her hand. “I love you to bits, Sis, but you so need to get over your hips. Just this once. Trust me. Please?”

  I panini-pressed my lips together. It was easy for her to talk about hips as if they were optional extras; she had a model’s body and the confidence to match. Some of us had been disguising our ‘womanly figure’ since before our first kiss. Some of us had gone through our entire teens boyfriend-less because of said ‘womanly figure’. Some of us had issues, okay?

  “Look,” said Dani, “the best way to look slim is to go for clothes with a closer fit. Not slutty, not too tight, just . . . Well, let’s try some other options and I’ll show you.”

  “I don’t know what his mother looks like,” I muttered. “She’s not in the family photos.”

  “Maybe she died.”

  “So you’re saying these clothes make me look dead. Nice.”

  Fortunately, at that moment Sue-Ann produced another shedload of garments for me to try on, and our petty argument stopped before it gathered momentum.

  I tried on another hundred or so outfits, and under Dani’s eagle eye a short-list of possibilities emerged. I stopped offering opinions—clearly what I thought was irrelevant—and an eternity later Dani stopped me mid-pirouette and smiled.

  “That’s it. That’s the one.” She turned me this way and that, making me look at myself from every angle. “Now that is classy.”

  It was. It was absolutely perfect.

  The black silk halter-neck dress with its plunging neckline was subdued—but wow! What a statement. It transformed me into a Fifties screen siren.

  “I can’t believe it’s me.” Awed, I stroked my hands over the figure-hugging fabric.

  “You have a lovely neckline, and beautiful breasts,” Sue-Ann purred. “This dress accentuates everything to perfection.”

  I stared at my waist. It seemed so tiny. How had that happened? I fingered the black-satin waist band that drew up towards a diamante cluster, accentuating my cleavage.

  “These are hand-sewn.” Sue-Ann lovingly touched the beads. “Such beautiful detailing. Here.” She handed me an amber- and diamante-encrusted clutch-purse. “What do you think?”

  I thought it all looked way too expensive but, just for now, I pretended it didn’t matter.

  “It’s lovely.” I moved this way and that, watching the A-line hem caress my knees, loving the brush of silk against skin.

  “We’ll take the purse as well,” said Dani.

  I hurriedly searched for the price-tag. Found it in an inner pocket. Gasped. Stared at Dani in horror. No! Absolutely not. How would I ever pay off my credit card?

  Dani’s glare dared me to speak. I lapsed into silent panic.

  A few nips and tucks were needed—on my body, but we settled for the dress—and Sue-Ann tutted and clucked as she assessed the alterations. Then she said, “Go and have a coffee, ladies. It will be ready in an hour.”

  Coffee! Great idea.

  Dani disagreed. “Shoes,” she reminded me. “You need shoes.”

  My throat closed over. The dreaded ‘S’ word. Why was she doing this to me? She knew how I felt about it. Trying to find shoes for my size eight clompers was torture a la needle-in-haystack. Generally, if they fit I bought them. Fashion and personal taste were optional extras.

  I glowered at her.

  Dani glowered right back. “Shoes.”

  She was right. I didn’t have pretty evening shoes. Reluctant but resigned, I followed her down yet another pokey back street.

  When I re-emerged into daylight, clasping my first ever pair of Miu Mius, I didn’t know whether to feel ecstatic or depressed. Ecstatic because my sexy black, diamante-detailed, peep-toe stilettos looked gorgeous—and, astonishingly, were a perfect fit. Depressed because I’d now have to beg my po-faced bank manager for mercy, and I wasn’t sure he did Mercy.

  Dani finally relented and allowed me a quick caffeine fix, but I barely had time to taste it before she hauled me to my feet again. “Time to pick up your dress.”

  Of course, it wasn’t enough just to collect it and go. Both women insisted I must try on the dress again, ‘with your new shoes as well’, to check the alterations.

  I paraded in front of them, to cheers (Dani) and clapping (Sue-Ann), then posed in front of the mirror. I giggled with amazement. “Is that me?”

  Dani’s eyes shone. “You look totally hot.”

  She’d never said that about me before. Next to her I’d always felt like the frumpy aging sister, but now . . . now I liked my curves. Now I liked standing beside my sister.

  Sue-Ann rang up the bill. I handed over my credit card, nauseous. My bank manager would have a purple fit.

  I waited until we’d left before I sagged on Dani’s shoulder.

  “I’m broke!” I wailed. “Flat broke. I’m never go shopping with you again.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The flight to Dublin took little more than an hour. We’d barely left the ground when Amanda, sitting to my right, cleared her throat. “Do you like flying, Becky?”

  I started. She’d spoken? To me? I must’ve been gripping the armrests too hard.

  “It gets me where I’m going,” I said.

  At least, I hoped so. And best I didn’t think about that, since we were in the air.

  Then it struck me that maybe this wasn’t about me. Maybe this was her way of saying she was scared. Maybe we had something in common, after all. “What about you?”

  “Oh, I love planes.”

  Then again, maybe not.

  She beamed. “They’re incredible. Don’t you think it’s remarkable that such a huge, heavy lump of metal can stay in the air?”

  I glanced out the window. Swallowed. “I guess.”

  She leaned closer. “See those little flaps on the wings? Have you ever wondered what would happen if they stopped working?”

  Shit, lady. Enough already.

  “So many plane crashes happen because of the tiniest little malfunction.” She held her finger and thumb a millimetre apart, then sighed happily. “Isn’t technology amazing?”

  I sure hoped so, because our lives were depending on it right now. How could I say ‘shut it’ without being rude?

  She warmed to her theme, quoting me statistics I didn’t want to know. The guy next to the window eyed her as if he wanted to drive a pickaxe into her skull.

  It worked for me.

  He inhaled deeply, exhaled and said, “Oh, what glorious fun.”

  He rummaged around for some headphones and turned his body towards the window, staring down at the London murk.

  Lucky him.

  I tried once, twice, to politely change the topic, but Amanda just couldn’t take a hint. She enthusiastically regaled me with all the gory Lockerbie details. Staines got a brief m
ention but wasn’t really big enough to rock her radar. Spookily, her birthday coincided with 9-11. She knew an unhealthy amount about the Tenerife disaster, considering it had happened before she was born. On and on she prattled. Dates, aircraft, causes—she really was quite the plane crash encyclopaedia.

  Flying’s not my idea of fun. Planes are flimsy. They rattle, they shake, they make a horrific racket at take-off and even more of a racket at landing, they get buffeted around in the wind and, as far as travel goes, they’re not even very comfortable. Add Amanda to it all, complete with air disaster commentary . . . Well, she was tempting fate and I didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  I prayed for some kind of divine intervention. Make her fall asleep, lose her voice, have a seizure . . . Whatever. Just shut. Her. Up.

  The pressure in my chest grew, an enormous doomsday bell reverberating against my ribcage. I could tell I was building up to a good old-fashioned, screaming-heebie-jeebies, we’re-all-going-to-DIE moment.

  I cast around for Matt. He’d seen me like that; he’d be able to help.

  Except his seat was empty. Where had he gone?

  Hank caught my eye and sent me a lascivious wink. Slimeball. I pointedly ignored him and settled back in my seat. No way did I want his help.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and tried to think happy thoughts.

  Okay, the happy thoughts weren’t working.

  I tried a different approach.

  “How do you know so much about air disasters?” Get her talking about herself.

  “Reading. Lots of reading. Some people are into horror movies; I’m into plane crashes. I mean, think about it. Isn’t it just fascinating that these huge machines can fall out of the sky and get smashed beyond recognition and experts can still work out what happened?”

  Fascinating? No. Gruesome.

  “Daddy and I used to talk about planes all the time. He was an aircraft engineer.”

  She fell silent. I sent up a prayer of thanks.

  “Until he got blamed for that crash back in ninety-seven,” she said.

  I jerked my head up, shocked. “Oh no. What happened?”

  “A plane crashed, Daddy got blamed, so he hung himself in the bathroom.”

  I opened my mouth to speak. Closed it again. Freaking hell. Poor Amanda.

  I looked across at headphone guy. He met my eyes with an expression somewhere between deer-in-the-headlamps and pass-me-a-sickbag. His music obviously hadn’t saved him.

  “Anyway,” she said, businesslike, “that was years ago. Things have changed since then. But even though technology’s so much better, loads of things can still go wrong.”

  She gave us a run-down on all the ‘technical hitches’ that could send our plane plummeting down from the sky.

  I broke out in a cold sweat. I hadn’t realised air travel was still so risky.

  Headphone guy clapped a hand to his forehead then closed his eyes.

  I grabbed the emergency evacuation manual and committed it to memory. Hopefully we’d crash into a nice flat field where we might have half a chance of surviving.

  * * *

  Miraculously, we landed in Dublin without a hitch. I couldn’t keep the smile off my face. All those lilting Irish accents—and I was alive to hear them.

  “We’re here!” I said. “Who’s for a Guinness?” Because dammit, after that flight, I could do with one.

  “If the lady wants Guinness,” declared Hank, “the lady shall have Guinness.”

  His arm came around my shoulders. “And so shall I. To be sure, to be sure.”

  The hug became a shoulder massage. I suppressed a shudder. On the erotic scale it rated right up there with smear tests.

  I gave him my best fuck-off smile and moved out of reach. Indicated our bags, strewn around us. “Shouldn’t we at least check in to the hotel first?”

  “And sign up for dinner,” said Amanda.

  “Dinner? Guinness? Same thing. Me poor Da’ was Irish, begorra! I’ll no’ be passing by a Guinness.” Hank hee-hawed with laughter, and his toupee moved slightly askew.

  I cringed. The toupee was a disaster. And as for that appalling accent, his poor Da’ would be turning in his grave.

  “Are you going to keep that up all week?” I asked.

  “I’d keep it up all year for you,” he said, with a lewd grin.

  Hank on heat. Just what we needed.

  Amanda blushed beet-red and dashed off to get a baggage trolley.

  Matt coughed into the silence. “Give us a hand with these bags, Hank.”

  Then, in an undertone to me, “Don’t say a word. You’ll just encourage the prick.”

  Great. With a rutting pig in our midst (thanks, Hank) and minimal odds of surviving the return flight (thanks, Amanda), drinking myself into an AA meeting (sorry, Jim) suddenly looked like an excellent option.

  * * *

  Being the only other woman in our group, Amanda was my room-mate. Joy. I tossed my bag on the nearest bed and shrugged out of my coat, then watched as she painstakingly shook out and folded her clothes before stowing them all neatly in two of the drawers provided.

  “You can have the other two,” she offered.

  “Thanks,” I said with zero enthusiasm. “Maybe later.”

  She probably had hangers for her clothes and all.

  I unearthed the tea and coffee facilities and plugged in the tiny kettle. “Cup of tea?”

  Amanda nodded and, smiling, produced a packet of Blue Ribands from her hand luggage. “With chocolate wafers.”

  Yum! Maybe she wasn’t so bad, after all. We just needed to avoid any mention of planes.

  I went across the hall and knocked on Matt’s open door, then ventured in. “Cup of tea? Or would you be looking for something a little stronger?” This in my best Irish accent.

  Matt and Roland, the Year Three specialist, were both hunkered down in front of the tiny fridge bar and clearly looking for something a little stronger.

  “Has it got legs?” I asked.

  They turned and stood as one.

  Matt nudged the fridge door shut with his foot, giving me an appraising glance. “Abso-lutely.”

  Languid heat trickled through my veins. Why couldn’t he just creep me out, like Hank? It would make everything so much simpler.

  “Sorry?” Roland frowned. He never understood innuendo. Mr Literal all the way, was our Roland.

  “Nothing.” Matt gave me a disarming smile and I smiled back, my pulse kicking up in spite of all the promises I’d made myself.

  He stretched, reaching for the ceiling. Abdominals, rippling lightly, revealed themselves above his belt. Really, a girl could be forgiven for wanting to leap on him right there and then.

  “I like the sound of something stronger,” interrupted Roland. Which was fortunate, because these were both workmates, and this was still work, and it could just stop right there.

  “Stronger than what?” I asked, nonplussed.

  He looked at me as if I’d forgotten how to walk.

  “Tea, like you said.” He indicated the rows of miniature bottles in front of him. “But we’ll drink this dry in five minutes.”

  “Come on,” said Matt, “let’s find a real bar.”

  I went back to tell Amanda, and found her hanging the last of her clothes in the tiny wardrobe. And yes, she had brought her own dinky hangers—folding travel ones, no less.

  I reneged on my cup-of-tea suggestion. “We’ve had a better offer. There’s a bar downstairs. We’re all heading down now. Let’s go.”

  I didn’t wait for her.

  Downstairs, Hank was already propped up at the bar, looking like he’d been there all year. He downed his whiskey and joined us at the table, but not before he’d ordered, at top volume, “Compulsory Guinnesses all round. When in Ireland, do as the Irish do.”

  After that it was compulsory Murphys all round. Amanda and I sat out while the boys had compulsory Kilkennys all round. By the time it got to compulsory Let’s Start Agains all round I f
elt rather light-headed.

  “I could do with some food,” I said.

  “That’ll just dilute it,” said Hank.

  Matt shot Hank a derisive glance, so quickly disguised I wasn’t sure I’d even seen it. “Dinner’s in half an hour. Maybe we should make a move.”

  “We shouldn’t miss dinner,” said Amanda. “Just last week there was a news item about this. A really experienced international pilot . . .”

  I groaned but she told us his story anyway, which ended rather abruptly after he missed lunch, had a few pre-flight beers, and flew himself and two hundred-odd passengers into the side of a cliff. Lovely. I was just about to ask her how a pissed pilot managed to get through security when Roland cut in.

  “Amanda’s right,” he said. “We should go to dinner. They always have a good keynote speaker on the first night. Kick-starts the week.”

  Which gave us only half an hour to freshen up for the official opening of Conference Week. I made do with a power nap while Amanda dealt to her hair, pulling it into a bun so tight I expected grey matter to ooze from her ears if she smiled.

  In the event, dinner was worth the effort. Excellent food, prompt service, and an unmissable keynote speaker. It whetted my appetite for whatever the next four days might hold.

  As for the company, I was having the time of my life. Even Hank was bearable. He and his toupee weren’t quite the lady-catcher he imagined himself, but at least he was keeping his hands to himself so I wasn’t bothered by his smarmy one-liners.

  Meal over, a band set up in one corner. Waiters shifted the tables back, making room for an impromptu dance floor, and a bar of indecent proportions whooshed its shutters open for business. Good grief. Hell, this week would pickle my liver.

  “Becky. You’re here.”

  My heart sank. I knew that voice. I turned and forced a smile. “Alyssa.” The piranha from my last job.

  She looked stunning as ever.

  “Mwah! Mwah!” She air-kissed my cheeks then held me at arm’s length. “Darling, you look fantastic.”

  Whatever.

  “So do you,” I said.

  “Thank you, darling. We do our best.” Her hand strayed up to her already-perfect Cleopatra-black hair.