Winters & Somers (22 page)

            “I think just a quickie
on the office floor would have been pretty memorable.” With a sigh she checked
her watch and went to change into her alter-ego working clothes. One of them
had better get some work done.

            Four inch stiletto
heels weren't made for rushing, but she managed to park in front of the office
building where Mary's husband, Sean O'Flaherty, worked, just as the staff was
leaving for the day. She'd no problem identifying him, either – the man came
tearing out of the building and literally ran across the road and into a small
arcade.

            Cursing softly, she
tore off across the road after him. The arcade had several small and rather
exclusive stores as well as some eclectic artsy stalls where local craftspeople
touted everything from paintings to silver jewelry. But there was no sight of
the broad frame of Sean O'Flaherty.

There was
nothing else for it – Cíara had to force herself to enter each and every one of
the small shops, drooling over merchandise as she went by, crooning: “I'm
working now, my dears, but I'll come back for you” to the most gorgeous pair of
real leather court shoes she had ever had the pleasure to meet. The strange
looks she received from the sales staff made her hurry back outside and into
the next store – a small perfumery and cosmetics outlet.

           
Bingo!
There was
her man. Only Sean was obviously not buying perfume for a high-maintenance
mistress. He was behind the counter, serving a toffee-nosed Dublin 4 matron.
Obviously, poor Mary O'Flaherty had her wires crossed somewhere.

            When the matron had
paid for her purchase, Cíara sidled over to the counter where Sean was working
and, while pretending to be examining a display of cosmetics that cost more
than her rent, she pushed her business card over to him and asked if they could
talk for a few moments.

            “What about?” he
grumbled behind a bright sales smile.

            “Your wife asked me to
see you.”

            There was no mistaking
the fear that flitted across his face. “I've a coffee break in half an hour –
I'll meet you outside,” he muttered, spritzing her wrist with Euro-rich perfume
from a trial dispenser.

            “Uhmm, that's
gorgeous,” she said, rolling her eyes in pleasure, “But I'll have to think
about it.”

            Thirty-five minutes
later Sean flopped onto a street bench beside her. “So what the Hell's going
on? What’s this about Mary?” he demanded.

            “First of all, tell me
what you're doing in a fancy cosmetics store after work?”

            “What am I…? What the
feck does that have to do with you?”

            “Just answer the
question, you know, like we played at school – you show me yours and I'll show
you mine. You first.”

            Sean sat in sulky
silence for a minute or two. “Look, Mary's pregnant again,” he said, as if that
explained everything.

            “I don’t think she got
that way herself, so it shouldn't be a surprise.”

            “Oh, you're a real
smart mouth, aren't you?” Sean mocked.

After a few minutes
silence he went on in a calmer tone. “When we got married, I promised her the
sun, the moon and the stars. And all I've given her in ten years is a council
flat, three and a half kids, and a lot of worry. She's always wanted to go
abroad, Spain and France, and we've never had the money.

“Well, a friend
of mine owns this store, see, and he's doing all right. One of his staff's out
on maternity leave and he asked if I needed some extra cash. My mother said
she'll take the kids for a couple of weeks while Mary and I go away. So I'm
putting in extra hours in the evening and saving to take my wife on holiday
before the baby comes.”

            It was so sweet. She
felt tears prickle behind her eyes. In fact, it was so sweet she almost didn't
believe him. But there was no mistaking the look in his eyes when he talked.
This was a man with a severe case of love.

            “So, now, this is where I come into it, Sean. You see, your
wife is really concerned about you. You coming home every night, dog tired and
smelling of perfume, and claiming to be doing overtime. Especially when the
office is closed and no-one answers the phone on the desk you're supposed to be
working at.”

            Sean uttered a curse.
“I never thought of that. Never thought she'd ring me.”

            “Can you imagine what
she's thinking? Your poor wife thinks you've got a bit on the side while she's
turning into the Goodyear Blimp with your kid.” Cíara gave it to him straight.
Love was all very well, but not when it was causing inadvertent hurt.
Wake
up and smell the coffee, Sean!

            The big man was silent, slumped down on the bench for a few
minutes. Then he jumped to his feet, fumbling in his jacket pocket for change.

            “Where are you going?”

            “I'm running to get the
bus – I'd better go home and straighten things out with Mary.”

           
I always was a
sucker for a romantic story.
“Listen, Sean, go tell your boss you'll be
gone a while, then come back here. I'll give you a lift home.”

            “Thank you!” Sean
leaned forward and caught her up in an unexpected bear hug.

            “You're welcome,” she
said, trying to breath against his shoulder, “All's well that ends well.”

            Of
course, she wasn't allowed to keep those fuzzy warm feelings for long. A Dublin
Corporation parking attendant had left a little something to the tune of €50 on
her windscreen. She wasn't going to mention the fine, not wanting Sean to think
he should dip into his holiday money to pay his share, but he'd already seen
her snatch it from under the windshield wiper.

When he said:
“Aw, it could have been worse, they could have clamped this little beauty!” she
did consider borrowing one of his wife's fine kitchen knives.

* * *

            Her good deed for the
day done, she headed back home to change her clothes and call Mary Margaret to
see if she'd like to go out for a drink.

            “Well, you know, in my condition
I can't take alcohol – it’s bad for the baby. But if you really need company,
I'll come and have a glass of orange juice.” Mary Margaret's virtuous words had
Cíara gagging at the other end of the line.

            But she agreed to meet
her friend because she needed some time out – and she needed to be away from
the flat in case Winters prowled back. Avoiding the man was among her top
priorities right now. Especially as the work she'd insisted on doing had netted
nothing more than a fifty Euro fine. After all, she couldn't rob Mary and Sean
of their dream holiday by billing them at her usual rate, could she?

* * *

            Cíara sipped a cup of
coffee and munched on toast, savoring the delights of having her flat to
herself. Smokey and Small Eddie had taken off sometime during the day, and
please God had found some other sucker to take them in. And Winters - his
whereabouts was like an itch in the back of her mind.

Where was he,
and who was he with? Jealous, my girl, that's what you are. And jealousy is
just one more emotion you can't afford to have with that man!

            “So, how are you doing
with your man, then?” Mary Margaret, clad in a low cut loose blouse that
screamed 'maternity!' with a sexy edge, stretched in her seat and eyed Cíara
shrewdly.

            “First, Winters is NOT
my man. Second, he's mud sucking pond scum. Third, I can't wait to get him out
of my life,” her friend snapped, adding another helping of orange juice to her
whiskey. By her standards, this made it health food. “What are you grinning
at?”

            “You've really got a
thing for this fella, haven't you?”

            Cíara glared, and then
shrugged her shoulders. “Yeah. I've got it really bad. And you know what? He's
full of promises about some bedtime romps he's planning for us – but he won’t
follow through!”

            “Given him the
opportunity, have you?”

             She blushed. “Well,
sort of.”

            “Well, if you've given
him the opportunity, given him plenty of encouragement, and he's not following
through, then there's really only one answer.”

            “Suddenly you're an
oracle of knowledge about the opposite sex?”

            “Well, I am an engaged
woman and about to become a mother,” Mary Margaret said smugly.

            Cíara bit back a
retort. She was getting desperate for anything that would shed light on
Winters’ behavior. “Well, what would you say is the problem?”

            “Like I said, there can
only be one answer. The man is gay.”

            Cíara choked on her
drink, coughing and spluttering and spraying a nearby couple with a fine mist
of whiskey and orange. A small crowd gathered to help and advise, and after
much back patting from interested watchers and an offer of the Heimlich
Maneuver from a pimply youth – an offer Mary Margaret firmly declined on
Cíara's behalf – she was back to herself again.

            “You have got to be
kidding! Winters? Gay? Have you seen this man?”

            “No, you've been
keeping him under wraps. But looks don’t mean a thing. Remember Paddy Doherty –
Mad Pat, we used to call him? Gorgeous hunk of manhood if ever there was one.”

            “No – get away with
you! Pat Doherty's gay?” Cíara stared.

            “Keep your voice down –
he's sitting over there! Of course Pat Doherty's not gay – been married twice,
he has, and has about ten kids. No, I meant that friend of his, Connor Jones.
Always used to hang around Pat, he did, and Pat stopped the other boyyos from
beating on him. Well, everybody knew that Connor was gay as a bird,” Mary
Margaret said with the air of one who knows whereof she speaks.

            “Why’d you think he's
gay? Just because he wouldn't go to the grad dance with you!”

            Mary Margaret's eyes
narrowed. “Well, at least I didn't go to the grad dance in a – Jesus, Mary and
Joseph, would you look at that!”

            At that moment Cíara
was ready to kiss anything that distracted Mary Margaret from finishing the
sentence about the grad dance. She swiveled around in her seat to follow her
friend's drooling gaze – right to where Jonathon Winters sat comfortably in a
big leather chair. And with a big, leather skirted floozy draped all over him!

            “Ohmigod, Mary Margaret
– that's him!”

            “You're mistaken, love,
that's not Connor – “

            “No, you eeijit, that's
Jonathon Winters! I've gotta get out of here.”

“I thought we
were friends, Cíara Somers! What kind of a friend keeps something like that
hidden away from her best friend? You are not leaving this pub until we've been
formally introduced!”

 She sighed.
Grinding her teeth, she wondered exactly how to extricate herself from this
mess, while her heart was doing a little gasping sobbing at the sight of
Winters smiling at the woman by his side. They seemed pretty close, too.
Damn
the man!

A closer
inspection of the woman brought a nasty, wolfish grin to her lips. “Oh, yes,
Mary Margaret – I'll introduce you. But first of all, I have to get rid of a
little trash.”

            The woman with Winters
was hip-swaying her way to the ladies room, turning from time to time to give
Winters a cute little smile. A chill ran up Cíara's spine and heat rushed to
her cheeks – this performance was much too close to her own pickup routine for
comfort.
Did she really look like that?

No wonder her
temptress success rate was so high – and no wonder Anton Wallace had the wrong
idea!

            But now was time for a
little fun. She followed the woman into the ladies' room, and leaned against
one of the washbasins. When the woman came out and started to primp and preen,
she leaned towards her conspiratorially.

            “Listen, love, I
couldn't help but notice you with that fella...”

            The leather-skirted
blonde gave a smug grin. “He is pretty noticeable, isn't he?”

             Cíara would have
ground her teeth together if she hadn't been having such a good time. Taking a
deep breath, she leaned even closer to the other woman, trying to ignore the
eau de cheap perfume that tickled her nostrils. “Well, you see, that's why it’s
all such a crying shame. Especially for someone in your line of work.”

            “Whaddya trying to
say?  You cheeky mare, coming out with such….” The other woman was bigger than
Cíara and blocked out the light as she leaned indignantly over her.

            “I was just trying to
let you know, as one working girl to another, that that man's a copper.
Constable Plod. The Bill. You know, a policeman.”

            Blondie went pale under
her pancake makeup. “Get away with you!” she snarled.

            “Sorry, love, but it’s
true. You know how they have these pretty little banGardaí who go out and stand
on street corners and pick up johns and then throw 'em in jail? Well, our
friend out there is the boyyo equivalent of an undercover policewoman working
vice.”

            “Well, the lying,
underhand son of a –”

            “It's hard, isn't it?
But you know, I would have wanted someone to tell me,” Cíara said, her voice
dripping with sincerity, “Who wants to spend a night in the cells?”

            “Thank you, love. Sorry
I was a bit sharp there. Men are such bastards.” She swung out of the women's
room, Cíara in her wake. No way was she going to miss this!