Second Hand Jane (8 page)

This time it
was Jess who shot him a look. Enough was enough and grabbing her
phone, she punched out Nora’s number. “Oi, have you seen it? I am
holding you responsible, you know.”

“
Morning, hun,” she sang cheerily down the
line. “I take it you’re talking about the
Dublin Central
pic?”

“Why didn’t you
tell me my teeth were black from all the red wine?”

“You were
rather knocking it back, now that I think about it. Mind you, can’t
say I blame you. It was a nice little drop, I thought—quite
cheeky…”

“Shut up,
Nora!”

“Alright,
alright. If you must know, I was too busy staring at Ewan to notice
your teeth—so sue me. I’m seeing him again tonight, by the
way.”

“Humph. It’s
alright for some.”

“
Listen, I’m sorry, Jess, I am—but hey,
nobody will notice and if they do, they will have forgotten all
about it by tomorrow, especially if you don’t smile at them and jog
their memory.” There was a little snort down the phone before she
added, “Anyway, nobody reads the
Dublin Central
.”

“I heard that
snort! You better not be laughing at me, Nora Brennan, and for your
information, forty percent of Dubliners read that newspaper. I’m
officially mortified!” It was the
Express
’s rival paper and she wouldn’t have put it past the
paper’s weasel-like editor, Jimmy Mulroney, to have put the photo
in just to spite her. He was known to hold a grudge and she had
turned him down flat when he’d tried to poach her from the
Express
. As far
as she was concerned, she’d definitely made the right decision and
he had just cemented his reputation as a mean git who suffered from
short man’s disease.

“It’s not
fair,” she whined. “I really liked Nick but I’ve no chance of
hearing from him, not now! Bloody hell, choking on my wine was bad
enough but this… this is…”

“Enough to send
a gal off for her annual check-up at the dentist’s?”

“Shut up
Nora!”

“Look, if
that’s what you’re really worried about, rest assured—I saw the
kiss Nick planted on you last night. You’ll hear from him again.
Trust me.”

***

He rang on
Sunday night.

“Hey, Jessica,
it’s Nick Jameson. How are you?”

Her stomach did
this funny sort of a flip-flop somersault at the sound of his voice
and she sat up straighter on the settee, turning the television
down.

“Hi, I’m good,
thanks, Nick. How are you?” She hoped her voice didn’t betray how
wobbly her tummy felt.

As the
conversation moved swiftly on to the weather, she steadied her
nerves. It was a subject they didn’t mull over for long. They did
live in Ireland and it was mid-September after all. There was only
so much you could say about rain.

Jess was
unwilling to mention the photo in the paper just yet, happy to let
Nick make small talk about a hailstorm he’d gotten caught in
earlier that day.

She’d only left the apartment once over
the weekend and that was out of desperation. She’d needed to get a
carton of milk and a loaf of bread, so she’d donned a hoodie and
dark glasses. Nevertheless, she’d expected to be on the receiving
end of cat calls along the lines of, “Hey, Jessica, when are you
auditioning for the Pogues!” as she’d scurried down to her local
Spar shop. As it was, nobody had looked twice at her, so perhaps
she had overreacted after all. Chewing on her nail, she decided it
was no good; she’d just have to bite the bullet and put herself out
of her misery. It was that or she’d start talking about squally
showers and drizzle. She cut him off just as he was saying
something about the hailstones being the size of golf balls. “So,
um, Nick, did you happen to see the
Dublin Central
yesterday
morning?”

“Nope, I’m an
Express
man myself. There’s a column in
there I never miss on a Saturday.”

A smile spread
involuntarily across Jess’s face and she was glad they weren’t on
Skype because she knew she’d look like a dippy fool.

“
Besides, I don’t like all that gossip
fodder in the middle of the
Central
: most of it’s a load of shite. Some of the crap that gets
written about Ewan is unbelievable and who cares where so-and-so
has their lunch or where the latest place to be seen is. Why do you
ask?”

Jess allowed
herself to exhale. Thank goodness he hadn’t seen it! Somebody
upstairs was looking out for her after all. She’d have to apologise
to Harry next time she saw him and from now on, she promised,
looking heavenward, she would never blasphemy ever again. “Oh, um,
just a bit of a survey my boss asked me to conduct—you know, to see
who reads what.” It sounded pretty lame and she cringed but
thankfully Nick didn’t seem to pick up on it as he got to the point
of his call.

“Oh, right,
well, I’m heading over to London on a late flight tonight for
business back on Thursday and I was wondering whether you’d be free
that evening? I’ve been invited to the opening night of Esquires.
It’s a new cocktail bar on Dame Street.”

Jess decided
not to reflect on the irony of his inviting her to a cocktail bar
opening after his “who cares where the latest place to be seen is?”
spiel. Nope, it didn’t matter if she had an interview with the
Queen of England next Thursday evening. She’d cancel, because for
Nick super hottie Jameson, she’d be free. Hoping she didn’t sound
too eager, she told him that yes she would love to catch up next
Thursday and so he arranged to pick her up at nine before ringing
off.

Jess sat on
that couch for an age, hugging herself, and every time she recalled
that ever so soft kiss good night, her tummy did that funny forward
roll thing. It had been ages since a man had given her butterflies
like the ones she had flittering around at the thought of their
next date. What did one wear to cocktail bar opening nights? she
mused. Should she dig out her 1970s black wool Anne Klein dress? It
was classy and elegant but not what you’d call sexy. Nora would
know the look she should go for, she decided, picking up the phone
to ring her with her news. It clicked straight on to her
answerphone, which Nora’s mobile only ever did when she didn’t want
to be disturbed. Hmm, she thought, eyes narrowing; perhaps she was
up to no good with Ewan. Nora was a firm believer in trying before
buying so it wouldn’t surprise her. She’d make sure she got the
lowdown tomorrow. She’d try Brianna instead. The same thing
happened—God, was everybody at it? Her new-found piety was
short-lived as a naughty smile played at the corners of her mouth.
Who knew? If she played her cards right, she might be in the club
soon too—no, not literally of course. God no!

Flicking the
television off and opening her laptop, she decided she couldn’t sit
here dreaming about Nick all night and she certainly didn’t want to
dwell on the fact her two best friends were more than likely having
sex. There was nothing else for it—she’d have to do some work.

Leaning away from the screen, with her
fingers forming a steeple she was holding to her lips, Jess
pondered the best way to handle her humiliation at the hands of
the
Dublin
Central
. The more she
thought about it, the more it became clear that she should make
light of it—turn it into a bit of a joke. Show that it didn’t
bother her. It was with that thought in mind that her hands began
flying over the keys as she tapped out an article bound to make the
most pokerfaced of
Express
readers
crack a smile—at her expense, of course. She had just begun writing
about how close she had come to having the “hymen” manoeuvre
performed on her by a Manuel from
Fawlty Towers
lookalike (naming no names, of course) when the
phone jangled into life, disturbing her flow. Jess felt a surge of
irritation; it was ten o’clock and there was only one person who
rang at this time on a Sunday night. Stretching over, she answered
it with a lemon-lipped hello.

“Well, if there
was ever a tone to frighten potential suitors away, it’s that one,
my girl.”

“Hey Mum.” She
sighed, having guessed right. “I was just about to do some
work.”

“Yes, well,
work can wait. It’s Sunday night over there, isn’t it? Frank, you
did work out the time difference properly, didn’t you?” Marian
called out.

Jess held the
receiver away from her ear, a mental image of her father seated in
his favourite Lazy Boy chair forming. “Yeah, it is but…”

“
Well, you shouldn’t be working on a Sunday
night, for goodness’ sake, so put whatever it is you were doing
down. It can wait until Monday, surely? We can have a nice little
chat instead. So
how
are you,
sweetheart?”

Jess frowned,
hating the way she stressed the “how,” inferring she couldn’t
possibly be happy. Her complete lack of interest in Jess’s work
stung too. She would have loved to have told her Mum about the
black teeth debacle or her plans for finding Amy but there was no
point. She closed her laptop with resignation, knowing full well
there would be no fobbing Marian Baré off when she was in this
mood. Still, she thought, on the bright side, at least this time
she had some news that would definitely please her. “Actually, Mum,
since you ask. I’m good. Really good, in fact…I’ve met
someone.”

There was a
split second’s silence broken by a scream and followed by,
“Hallelujah! Frank, turn the telly off! She’s met someone!”

Jess could
picture her dad hitting the mute button, a tiny act of rebellion,
on the telly as he flicked his favourite armchair upright. It might
have been a Sunday morning at home but there would still be some
form of sport on the box and it would take a major world disaster
for him to forfeit his fix. It had been the happiest day of his
life when he had gotten the Sky Sports channel.

“Oh, that is
fabulous, Jessica, just fabulous. But first things first—any
issues? Is he normal?”

“
Mum!
”

“I have to ask,
darling. You can’t blame me worrying, not with your track
record.”

She couldn’t
really argue with that one. “He is tall, blonde, and handsome.”

“So was Ted
Bundy.”

“He had dark
hair and he’s not a serial killer, Mum; he’s a successful property
developer and he drives a convertible.” She added this last bit to
prove her point. It worked.

“Frank, he
drives a convertible!”

She heard
something muffled in the background.

“Your father
wants to know what kind of convertible.”

It had sounded more like her father had
said something along the lines of
bully for him
to Jess, which seemed a far more likely response
from the laidback Frank.

“How should I
know? But you can tell Dad that it was shiny and grey, oh and it
went quite fast.”

“It was shiny
and grey, Frank, and it went fast.” She paused for a moment. “I
hope he wasn’t speeding. So come on, then, what’s his name?”

“Nick
Jameson.”

“Jessica
Jameson. It has a nice ring to it. Jessica Jameson—Frank, what do
you think? Your dad’s nodding, sweetheart; he likes it too.”

God, with Darby
and Joan for parents, was it any wonder she was still single?

“How old is
he?”

“Er, I’m not
sure. He is an old school friend of Ewan Reid’s, so I guess he must
be around thirty-eight.”

“Ewan Reid? As
in Ewan Reid the actor?”

“Yes, Nora’s
just started dating him.”

There was
another eruption as Marian shrieked this trivia across the living
room to Frank, who gave an unimpressed sounding grunt, and then her
voice grew suspicious. “Hmm, thirty-eight, you say, and he keeps
the company of celebrities? Has he been married before?”

“I’m not
sure.”

“She’s not
sure, Frank—didn’t you ask him?”

“It didn’t
really come up, Mum.”

“Well, it
should have. Have I taught you nothing over the years? Be sure to
ask him next time you see him. If there are children from a past
relationship involved, you won’t have an easy time of it, my girl,
so think on.” She drew breath, not ready to give up on her
potential son-in-law just yet. “What exactly does he do?”

“I already told
you he’s a property developer.”

“Yes, I got
that but what property is it that he develops? I hope he’s not one
of these rogues we’re always reading about here that turf old
people out of their homes to make a quick buck.”

Jess shook her
head. “Of course he’s not.”

“So what does
he develop then?”

“Um, I don’t
know…expensive property?”

“Oh, for
goodness’ sake, Jessica, what on earth did you talk to him about
all night? Where does he live? Tell me that at least.”

Jess cringed.
“Ah, not sure,” she squeaked, realising she didn’t know much about
Nick Jameson after all.

“Well, when are
you seeing him again? Think very carefully before saying I don’t
know, my girl.”

“Thursday
night, actually. He’s taking me to the opening of a new cocktail
bar.”

“Oh, thank
goodness for that. Thursday night, Frank—she’s going to a cocktail
bar with him.”

Her suspicious
tone returned. “He doesn’t have a drink problem, does he?”

“
Mum!
”

Marian ignored
her. “What are you going to wear? Please tell me you won’t be
donning one of your weird and wonderful thrift shop creations.”

“I don’t know
yet and for your information, some of my weird and wonderful
creations are actually designer vintage collectables.”