Never Too Late (66 page)

pitying look, and drawled: ‘Well, I do, sunshine. And as we

say in Ireland, you can rev up and fuck off. Goodbye.’

Feeling ten feet tall, she turned on her heel and strode

majestically into the club, shoving her shirt back into her

trousers and flicking back her hair in triumph. Talk about

girl power and respect! Yes!

Why hadn’t she done that years ago? Bloody Owen

Theal would have benefited from some of that treatment and

perhaps a good left hook to the jaw into the bargain,

she thought with satisfaction. Suddenly she was filled with

longing for Ewan, for his arms around her and his mouth

crushed against hers. What had she been playing at with

Tim? What had she been playing at with Ewan, come to

that? She’d completely screwed up their relationship

thanks to her neuroses. It was about time she got to grips

with her problems and started living.

Cara felt her head filling with plans and ideas. She’d

phone Ewan the moment they got home, tell him she was

crazy about him and announce to the entire office they

were in love. And she’d find a counsellor in the phone

book, someone to open all the locked doors in her mind,

doors behind which demons lurked; ones that looked like

Owen Theal.

She moved to the pulsating Euro disco beat and joined

Rosie and Gwynnie on the swarming dance floor. ‘Hey,

girls, where are we going next?’

Evie dragged her suitcase downstairs and left it by the

door. As if by magic, Max appeared.

‘Evie, why didn’t you tell me you wanted to leave early

last night? I’d have driven you home.’

‘There was no need,’ she said evenly. After spending

much of the night rehearsing exactly what she’d say to

Max, she couldn’t let herself down by screaming that she

was as jealous as sin and he was a dirty double crosser to

have her and Mia going at the same time. ‘I was tired and

needed a rest.’

Max looked as if he needed a rest himself. His face was

drained and, despite his healthy bronze colour, there were

shadows under the normally blazing cobalt blue eyes that

today looked dimmed somehow.

‘We need to talk,’ he said urgently, ‘about last night.’

‘Why?’ she asked briskly. ‘I’m not your keeper.’

‘I don’t want you to get the wrong idea, Evie.’ he said,

raking a hand through his shining black hair.

She smiled coldly at him. “I don’t have any wrong ideas,

Max. I merely needed to get away from everyone to come

to my senses and consider what I nearly threw away.’

She meant the words to cut him to the hone and they

did, she was sure of that. He recoiled slightly.

‘What,’ he said, eyes narrowed, ‘does that mean precisely?’

‘Just that,’ she replied. ‘Simon’s a good man. I can’t

believe I nearly threw my whole future away for a hen

night fling.’

The words nearly stuck in her throat. Her night had

been nothing like a hen night fling. It had been wondrous,

passionate, the most incredible night of her life. But she

couldn’t let him know that. No way.

‘So that’s all it was to you?’ he said. ‘A hen night fling?’

Evie could see hurt and bewilderment in his eyes but

she ploughed on.

‘Come on, Max,’ she replied, words dripping cynicism,

‘don’t tell me it was any different for you?’ “I love you” is

very easy to say in the heat of passion, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s not. Not for me.’

‘Poor you then.’

She walked past him into the garden, wanting to put as

much distance as possible between them. It would be so

easy to crack, to cling to him and say she didn’t care if he

had ten women on the go at one time, so long as she could

be one of them.

Swallowing deeply to control the lump in her throat,

Evie walked across the lawn, still damp from the morning

sprinklers. All she had to do was get through the journey

home and then she’d never have to see Max Stewart again.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The washing machine repair man ate three Penguins and

had two mugs of tea before he left.

‘I’ll give you a bell when I’ve got the part. Should he

Thursday,’ he said cheerily as Evie stood on the doorstep

seeing him out. ‘I still think it’s better to get a new

machine,’ he added, shaking his head at the notions of

women. ‘That’ll only give you another few months at best,

but it’s up to you.’

‘No, it’s not,’ she muttered to herself, slamming the

door. ‘It’s up to the bank manager.’ Buying a new washing

machine was undoubtedly the most sensible option since

the motor in her seven-year-old one had conked out faced

with acres of holiday washing.

But replacing the motor would give her at least

another year out of the machine and, as she couldn’t

afford a new one, it was the only option. Irritatingly, not

getting it fixed until Thursday meant she’d have to lug

everything down the road to the launderette. Just as well

she’d taken Monday off to sort herself out after the

holiday. Some holiday! She may have looked happily

tanned, but on the inside Evie felt as blue as Picasso’s

famous monochrome period. She sneezed abruptly and

her eyes watered. A cold; she was also getting a cold. All

she bloody needed.

The phone rang and she answered it listlessly, trying to

reach the tissue she’d jammed up her cardigan sleeve to

stem her sniffles. It was Simon, phoning for the second

time that day to assure her he was on track for their

lunch time reunion. He’d been at his favourite aunt’s

hospital bedside over the weekend and so hadn’t seen Evie

since she and Rosie had arrived home from Spain.

Which was merciful, she thought, feeling the usual

pangs of guilt whenever she thought about him. At least

with a couple of days’ grace, she’d be able to arrange her

face into some sort of post-holiday smile and pretend

she’d had a good time. Otherwise, he’d see the bleak,

hollow eyes that stared back at Evie every time she

looked in the mirror and even Simon, not the most

sensitive person in the cosmos, would realise that something

was wrong.

‘Hugh gave me a wedding present this morning,’ he was

saying proudly, obviously thrilled that the senior partner in

the firm had deigned to remember Simon and Evie’s

forthcoming nuptials.

‘Oh, what is it?’

‘A Lladro dancing couple,’ Simon said excitedly. ‘Apparently,

it’s very expensive stuff

Lovely,’ Evie replied. She hated Lladro.

‘I’ve booked a table for one o’clock in Kite’s in

Ballsbridge as a special treat, is that all right?’

“I have a wedding dress fitting,’ Evie reminded him, ‘so I

might be late. You know what the traffic is like.’

‘I’ll order for you if you’re late,’ Simon said cosily.

‘Sesame prawn toast and chicken in black bean sauce.’

Evie suppressed an urge to shriek that she didn’t want

anyone deciding what she’d eat, she’d bloody well pick her

own lunch, thank you very much.

‘Great,’ she said. ‘Must go, love. ‘Bye.’

She was running so late that she had to abandon the car

on a double yellow line in Ranelagh to run into Bridal

Daydreams where four women were oohing and aahing

over a short blonde who looked miserable at being jammed

into yards of unflattering satin in a design that looked like

a meringue waiting for the cream and kiwi fruit to be

ladled on.

‘I prefer the shift dress,’ the poor girl was saying,

although nobody was listening.

At least I don’t have a committee orchestrating my wedding dress, Evie thought gratefully, slipping into the alterations room. Sweating from her sprint, she ripped off

her clothes and then had to fan herself with a Brides magazine for five minutes so she wouldn’t destroy the dress with perspiration.

‘Lord, haven’t you lost weight?’ squealed Delphine, the

dressmaker, as delightedly as she could with several pins

jammed into the side of her mouth. All my brides lose a

few pounds but you’ve lost at least half a stone.’

‘Really?’ commented Evie, totally unmoved by information

that, two months ago, would have thrilled her to her

bones. What a way to lose a few pounds! The Max Stewart

Disaster Diet - spend a few nights with our hero and

you’ll never fancy a mayonnaise-and-full-fat-cheese-sandwich

ever again.

“You don’t want to lose too much,’ warned Delphine, on

her knees and pinning expertly. ‘Or it’ll be hanging on you.

This style needs some bosom.’

The dress was a Jane Austen classic: Empire-line oyster

satin with an embroidered bodice and lace-covered sleeves.

The sort of dress Evie had purred over on the cover of her

favourite Regency novels. Now, it didn’t give her the same

frisson of excitement when she thought she was actually

going to glide down the aisle wearing it.

Delphine was going on about being thin again and how

she’d gone back to Weight Watchers in the hope of getting

rid of that impossible-to-shift three stone.

Evie looked at her own reflection in the wall-sized

mirror gloomily. Despite having lost a few pounds, she

was never going to be thin. Not Mia Koen thin anyway.

You were either born with that thoroughbred bone structure

or you weren’t. No amount of dieting would give her spindly legs perfect for wearing floaty knee-length dresses and strappy sandals in sorbet-coloured suede. Or even

casually thrown on sarongs and minuscule Tshirts, for

that matter.

They were now on to the knotty subject of low-calorie

biscuits. Delphine, mouth still full of pins, was an aficionado of every calorie-controlled item in the supermarket.

Evie let her chatter away and mentally drifted off to a

warm Spanish night where the cicadas made sweet music

and Max’s body had worshipped hers. What was he doing

now? she wondered. Was he tucked away in some remote

cosy hotel with Mia, kissing and making love, hating

themselves for having wasted so much time when they

could have been together? Did Max cuddle Mia after

they’d made love, spooning his big body around her

fragile one, stroking her with a sense of affectionate

wonder? Evie must have looked so desolate suddenly that

Delphine stopped talking and stared at her little face,

pale under the tan.

‘Cheer up, love.’ Delphine squeezed her arm encouragingly.

‘All girls get last-minute nerves - so do the lads, come

to think of it. But it’ll be fine. He’d want to be out of his

mind to leave a lovely thing like yourself standing at the

altar. Anyway, as the bishop says, there’s always divorce if

things go wrong!’ Delphine screamed with laughter at her

own humour.

‘Yes.’ Evie replied politely, thinking that things had

already gone wrong and they hadn’t even got as far as the

altar.

Simon was sipping mineral water with a very pleased

expression on his face when Evie rushed into Kite’s,

twenty minutes late, having guiltily abandoned the car on

yet another double yellow line.

‘Had to park on Pembroke Road,’ she gasped. “I hope I

won’t be clamped.’

‘Oh, Evie,’ he said disapprovingly. ‘You should have

parked in the Herbert Park Hotel like I did.’

‘You’re not supposed to unless you’re going there,’ she

protested, tired from all her rushing about and twice as

tired of Simon’s small-mindedness. He could bore for

Ireland in the Olympics about car parking in Dublin city.

‘Have you ordered?’ she asked. Anything to stem the

inevitable “I know a little car park on Shelbourne Road

that nobody else knows about’ conversation.

‘Yes. I hope you’re in the mood for sesame prawn toast?’

he added, looking unsure of himself. ‘If you’re not, you can

have my spare ribs.’

Touched, she got up from her seat, leaned over the table

and kissed him on the cheek. For once, Simon didn’t shy

away from the public demonstration of affection.

‘I missed you,’ he said in a whisper, and grabbed her

hand under the tablecloth when she sat down again.

Evie smiled back, desolate at the thought that, after a

separation of a week, Max would have grabbed her in full

view of the entire restaurant and kissed her so hard she’d

have needed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and a moment

in an oxygen tent afterwards.

After a quick squeeze, Simon withdrew his hand and

began to describe the Lladro wedding present in great

detail. He only stopped when their starters arrived and

then, after a brief nibble of his spare ribs, went on to

discuss the implications of receiving such a large and

expensive present from the boss.

‘It’s a good sign,’ he said earnestly, pushing his hornrimmed

glasses on to the bridge of his bony nose, one hand

wielding a spare rib recklessly. ‘Hugh wouldn’t do that for

just anybody, you know. It’s fast track all the way to

partnership, I tell you, Evie.’

Evie, thinking of the whiskey-drinking, bimbo-loving

Hugh of the Christmas party and his sad wife, Hilda,