Never Too Late (45 page)

a wonderful raconteur and by the time he’d finished his

potted biographies of the people she had either met or

soon would, she had a stitch in her side from holding in

roars of laughter.

He told her that Nancy Roberts would be out for her

blood and had in fact already made an attempt to have

Olivia fired.

‘Even before I was given the job?’ she said, amazed.

‘Paul won’t take any of her crap,’ Max remarked. ‘Lots of

producers let the stars boss them around wholesale, and

sometimes,’ he grinned ruefully, ‘if the star is big enough,

you have to kowtow or they won’t work. I have a leading

lady a bit like that. However, Nancy needs Paul Reddin just

as much as he needs her so she can’t out-manoeuvre him.

He won’t let her, which is why you’re perfectly safe. Well,

your job is safe. What nasty little tricks Nancy has up her

sleeve to dissuade you from a TV career is another matter

entirely. But you’ll manage.’

The way he said it, so confident of Olivia’s ability, gave

her self-confidence an enormous boost. She would handle

Nancy Roberts. During the coffee, he finally came back to

the subject of the Erasers, like a dog returning to the place

where he’d buried a particularly tasty bone. ‘Have you

known Simon for very long?’ he asked, trying to be subtle

but failing miserably. His long fingers played with the fine

handle of his coffee cup.

‘Only since Evie’s been going out with him,’ she replied.

‘Nearly two years, I think.’

‘When are they getting married?’

‘September.’

His fingers tightened around the handle and Olivia

feared for the delicate china.

She hadn’t imagined it: he was crazy about Evie. Olivia

decided gently to explain a little bit about her friend.

‘Evie was on her own for a long time, although I’m sure

your mother knows that. She didn’t have it easy, bringing

Rosie up without a father, and I rather think she’d given up

on men and love when Simon came along.’

‘He seems like a nice guy,’ Max remarked.

‘He is. He’s very …’ Olivia searched for the right words.

‘Sweet and kind. Not the sort of man I’d have thought Evie

would go for, in fact.’

Max sat forward, face alive with interest. ‘What sort of

man would you think she’d like?’

‘More macho, stronger, more streetwise perhaps.’ Olivia

felt marginally guilty about Simon, of whom she was fond,

but she was being honest.

The sensitive, rather unworldly Simon had always struck

her as an odd choice for her friend, a woman who would

probably name Rhett Butler as her ideal man, if she wasn’t

trying to hide her love of romantic fiction behind her

hard-boiled facade.

‘Evie’s husband was totally different from Simon.’

‘What was he like?’

It was difficult remembering anything about Tony

Mitchell, although Olivia had been a bridesmaid at their

wedding in his icy little Kerry hometown. There’d been

no heating in the tiny stone church and, shivering in the

off-white plain wedding dress the two of them had

bought hastily a week before, Evie had looked blue with

cold. Her new mother-in-law had looked blue in the face

from pressing her lips together disapprovingly. The only

person who’d appeared to be enjoying themselves was

Andrew Fraser - stoic in the face of disaster as usual,

Olivia thought fondly.

In the context of that wedding, she could just about

picture Tony, impenetrable sloe-black eyes so like Rosie’s

giving nothing away. He was what they called ‘black Irish’,

descended from the Spanish Armada that had sunk off

the Irish coast in the Elizabethan era, leaving Spanish

sailors to father a whole race of dark-eyed, dark-skinned

children who looked very different from the pale, blue

eyed Celts.

That’s what had drawn Evie to him, Olivia remembered.

The fact that he was very different from all the

callow boys she’d gone out with before. Wearing his dark

blue police uniform, gypsyish face curved into a taunting

grin, he was positively dashing. Very Rhett Butler. What a

pity he hadn’t turned out to have the same kind, strong

heart as Rhett.

Maybe that’s why Evie had given up any hope of

finding a real hero and made do with a palely decent

man like Simon, who’d never light any fires within her and

who’d never light any for other women either.

Olivia jerked herself out of her daydream. Max was still

waiting for a description of Tony but she felt that she couldn’t give away all her dearest friend’s secrets, no matter that it was to a man who seemed to embody all

Evie’s hidden needs.

‘He was very brave, a member of the Gardai,’ she said,

giving Max the official line. ‘He’d been decorated for his

police work but was tragically killed in an accident.’

‘Certainly sounds tragic,’ Max said. ‘Poor Evie. I guess

she was really in love with him?’ he added wistfully.

‘Yes,’ Olivia replied briskly, draining the last of her

coffee. ‘Now, much as I’m enjoying this wonderful restaurant,

I have to go and pick up Sasha and her friend. We’re

going swimming.’

After an afternoon spent in the shallow end and then

ages getting two wriggling children dry to shrieks of: I’m

cold, Mummy!’ Olivia felt in need of more adult company.

As Stephen was away, she was free to do whatever

she wanted and the thought of an hour chatting to Evie

felt good.

Evie was cooking something that both Rosie and Simon

would eat when Olivia arrived, a tired Sasha in tow.

Installing her daughter in the sitting room with Barbie

and 101 Dalmatians, Olivia retreated to the kitchen and,

seeing Evie wearily browning bits of chicken, boiled the

kettle.

‘I’m dying for a cup of tea,’ Evie said, brushing hair from

her forehead with the back of her hand. And I’m ravenous.

I’m back on the Ryvitas again,’ she added gloomily. ‘I don’t

know why but I just can’t lose those five pounds I put on

over Christmas.’

‘Poor thing,’ Olivia said comfortingly. ‘I just had the

most wonderful lunch with Max,’ she added gaily.

Evie couldn’t believe how jealous she felt. Olivia had

had lunch with Max. Jealousy pierced her like a metal

skewer stabbing the soft flesh of a roast chicken to see if it

was cooked. Only the metaphorical juices flowing down

the sides weren’t clear like that of a perfectly cooked fowl

- they were green with envy.

‘Lunch?’ she asked, feigning indifference. ‘That sounds

nice. Where did you go?’

‘Guilbaud’s,’ answered Olivia, too thrilled with her

wonderful day to notice the hurt tone in Evie’s voice.

‘Guilbaud’s?’ asked Evie, not even bothering to feign

indifference now. The most exclusive, most glamorous and

most talked-about restaurant in Dublin. She longed to go

there, dressed to kill with a handsome man by her side,

with fleets of attentive French waiters ministering to her

every need. Simon, eminently prudent, wouldn’t have

dreamed of taking her there. But Max would. It was just

his sort of place - elegant and luxurious. And he’d brought

Olivia there. Evie was amazed at how much it hurt.

What an In discriminating rake he was! If he couldn’t

have one woman, he went after another like a drunken,

womanising sailor, not caring which port he was in so long

as there was something warm and female waiting for him

there.

Olivia was talking about the food. ‘Seared scallops, soft

as butter,’ she moaned. ‘I am telling you, Evie, I have never

tasted anything like them in my life. That chef is a genius.

I wonder if I could cook scallops on the show …’

Olivia had her priorities all wrong, Evie thought crossly,

pushing the browned chicken around the pan aggressively. If she’d been eating in Guilbaud’s with Max Stewart the food would have been the last thing on her mind.

‘He was very good to me,’ Olivia continued. ‘He told me

all about Nancy Roberts, said he wouldn’t have dared to

tell me before the audition in case I bottled out. Max says

he’s known her for years and that she’s the biggest prima

donna in the business. Apparently, she was on the phone to the executive producer, his friend Paul, immediately after my audition, demanding to know why they were auditioning

amateurs. Which means,’ Olivia grinned, ‘that you were

right all along, Evie. She’s dead jealous, or so Max says’

Evie quelled her desire to point out sharply that Olivia’s

conversation was littered with ‘Max says this’ and ‘Max

says that’. Or that the Olivia of the previous day had been

so nervous about the idea of a vengeful Nancy Roberts that

she’d toyed with the idea of never going near the television

studio again. Now, Olivia was speaking as if Nancy was

nothing more than an irritating nuisance, certainly nothing

to stand in the way of her television career.

‘The problem is that Nancy has been trying to get a

prime-time evening show for years, only when she tried it

the programme flopped disastrously. The Nielsen ratings

were horrendous,’ Olivia said, sounding at ease with the

TV speak. ‘So now she uses all her muscle to make

everyone’s life a misery. What’s wrong, darling?’ she asked

in concern as Sasha came into the kitchen, a tremulous

expression on her face. ‘Is the film over?’

Sasha shook her head mutely, stuck her thumb in her

mouth and put out her arms for her mother to hug her.

Olivia put the little girl on her lap and enveloped her in

a hug, kissing the soft baby fine hair gently. She smelled

clean and fresh, of peach shampoo and baby soap, and

Olivia felt overwhelmed by love for her. After a moment,

Sasha wriggled down and trotted into the sitting room.

‘She’s very clingy these days,’ Olivia said worriedly. ‘She

can sense the tension at home and she’s back to sucking

her thumb, which she hasn’t done for months. I don’t

know what to do. No matter how badly Stephen behaves, I

can put up with it, but not if it affects Sasha.’

Seeing Olivia’s anxious expression, Evie felt a stab of

remorse at even thinking her friend had been deliberately

flirting with Max. Poor Olivia had enough on her plate as

it was and wouldn’t dream of having an affair with anyone.

Despite all his flaws, she was still in love with Stephen, still committed to her marriage.

It was Max who’d done all the running and Evie grimly

awarded him another black mark.

They chatted for another few minutes before Simon

arrived straight from work, tie askew as usual. Not noticing

that Evie was cooking, he said he’d hooked dinner for two

in the hotel in the city centre where they were having their

wedding reception.

‘I want to see what their rack of lamb is like,’ he said

eagerly, pushing his glasses on to his narrow nose, as he did

at least fifty times a day.

Usually, Evie vowed to get him new glasses. Tonight, it

merely irritated the hell out of her. She banged the pan on

the cooker top to draw his attention to it.

Unperturbed, Simon patted her arm. ‘Rosie can eat that,

can’t she?’

‘We’d better go,’ Olivia said, sensing a row was imminent

and collecting up Sasha’s coat and toys. ‘This honey

bunny has to go to bed,’ she added, tickling a squirming

Sasha.

Olivia was halfway down Evie’s road before she remembered

that she’d meant to mention how often Max had

talked about her. Olivia was convinced that he’d asked her

out purely as an opportunity to find out more about Evie.

It was charming the way he’d deftly drag the conversation

around to her again and again, then forget to be subtle

when he asked about Simon and how long they’d been

going out. He was crazy about Evie: it was as plain as the

nose on his handsome face.

She’d tell Evie another time. It was only fair that her

friend knew how Max felt about her.

Simon gave Evie’s hand a surreptitious squeeze under

the tablecloth. He wasn’t the sort of man who’d hold her

hand on top of the table. Public physical displays weren’t

his sort of thing. That was too touchy-feely. Not Simon at

all. His idea of being demonstrative in public was the

Heimlich Manoeuvre.

Aware that her hand felt about as responsive as a dead

halibut, Evie tried to smile back at her fiance. But she

couldn’t. It was like trying to beam merrily at the dentist

when he said, ‘Now that didn’t hurt, did it?’ while your

mouth ached as if it had been hit by a dump truck.

‘Is something wrong, Evie?’ Simon asked with a flash of

intuition.

Yes, she wanted to scream. Yes, it is. We shouldn’t be

sitting here discussing the wedding meal. We shouldn’t be

getting married in the first place. It’s wrong.

But she said nothing. Instead, she summoned all her

energy and tried to look as if she was merely lost in the

misty joy of imagining herself as a bride stuffing her face

with lamb and creamed courgettes, trying not to spill any

on her fairy-tale gown.