Woman to Woman (50 page)

“It just slipped my mind. What time are they coming in at?”

Ten-thirty. We’re going to the hairdresser’s at eleven and Michelle she’s the new make-up artist I was telling you about, Rhona she’s doing their make-up in the salon. Then we’ve lunch in Spinelli’s at one and the photographer will!

take the pics there.”

“Oh no, I forgot to remind Annette to get the clothes picked!

up yesterday shouted Jo in horror. “Don’t panic, I did it,” said Nikki.

“I knew you were sick,” she added.

“How are you today?”

“Fine.” Jo replied.

“I just needed a few days in bed.” “Ah yes, but with whom?” called Rhona from her office, winking lewdly at Jo.

“Watch it McNamara she replied.

“Just because you can take on headmistresses, don’t try anything with me.”

“What’s this about headmistresses?” inquired Nikki.

Jo, Nikki and Michelle, the make-up artist, all tilted their heads sideways and looked at the second make-over candidate through narrowed eyes. It was hard to see where to begin.

They were in Peter Mark’s Hair and Beauty salon in the Stephen’s Green shopping centre and the day was deteriorating rapidly.

The first woman to be made over was an already stunning redhead in her early forties who needed a make-over like Ivana Trump needed dresses. With a fabulous figure, perfect make-up, glossy hair and an outfit that must have cost a week’s wages, there was absolutely nothing any of them could do to improve Helen.

“How the hell did we pick her?” whispered Nikki into Jo’s ear when Helen was brought off to the washbasins.

“Her letter said she was a mother of four with kids ranging in age from twenty to four, that she worked part-time as a nurse and helped her husband run a garden centre outside Cork.” replied Jo. The picture was blurry and she said she’d love a change of image and I thought she

deserved it. She could probably give us lessons on changing our image,” groaned Nikki.

“I don’t know what we can do to improve her.”

The second make-over candidate, however, was going to be a huge headache for the hairdresser. As a result of a perm gone wrong, twenty-nine-year-old Sharon who had long mousey hair in the passport-sized photo she’d sent in now sported layered hair that sat at an unflattering length between her ears and her jaw. The hairdresser was nearly tearing her own hair out at the thought of doing anything with Sharon’s hair in its present state.

“You’ll have to think of something,” Jo hissed at the hairdresser and make-up artist. The poor girl travelled miles to be here and she’s going to have a wonderful day and look “beautiful if we have to buy her a bloody wig!”

To make matters worse, Sharon wasn’t the size fourteen that she’d claimed in her letter. Instead, she was an eighteen at least which meant that the elegant wool jacket and skirt Jo had carefully picked for her definitely wouldn’t fit.

“I’ve seen some fabulous suits in the shops that would have looked really gorgeous on her,” groaned Jo, ‘if only she’d said she was a size eighteen in the letter, I could have brought her off and we’d have picked something amazing. There just isn’t the time now!”

“Well, what will we do?” demanded Nikki.

“I’m going to race down to Marks and Spark’s to get her a different outfit because they have great clothes in right now and we simply don’t have the time for a proper shopping trip.

Damn,” she added, “I’d have loved to have gone shopping with Sharon.”

Marks was blissfully empty and Jo spent an enjoyable fifteen minutes browsing, wishing she could buy something instead of saving her money for the new house. Now that she’d rung an estate agent about selling her apartment, the idea of moving had finally become reality and she knew she had to econo mise She’d stuck her credit card at the back of her dressing-table drawer and vowed to keep it there no matter what sort of mid-season sales started.

She’d have to be very careful with money until she was settled in her new home. Luckily, the woman from the estate agent’s said apartments in her block were always in demand and she’d have no trouble selling, despite the time of year.

“It’s such a pretty complex and the apartments are quite spacious compared to the ones being built now, so I doubt if you’ll have to wait long,” the estate agent said.

Jo was so busy working out how much money she’d need to borrow to buy the cottage and wondering whether she could afford a sloppy chenille jumper to hide her bump, that she totally lost track of time.

Oh no, she thought looking at her watch in horror. It was half eleven and she hadn’t even started looking for clothes for Sharon.

But Jo wasn’t a clothesaholic with an encyclopaedic knowledge of where to get what in her favourite shops for nothing.

It was just twelve as she rushed up Grafton Street with a large M & S bag in each hand. Jo really wished she hadn’t worn the long caramel wool cardigan over the cream silk shirt and black trousers. As she hurried past the crowds ambling along the pedestrian street, she was soon roasting hot and felt ready for a make-over herself. Or at least a chance to redo her foundation which had undoubtedly disappeared with sweat.

She struggled up the escalator and into Peter Mark’s to find Nikki relaxing on a couch, reading a magazine and leisurely sipping a cup of coffee, oblivious to the controlled chaos of the salon. Nikki’s blonde hair was immaculate, her face wasn’t shiny and red, and her off-white trouser suit looked as fresh as if it had just been returned from the dry-cleaner’s. Hot, sticky and convinced that she smelled like a jockey’s armpit, Jo felt like bag lady by comparison. ” “You got the clothes all right, then?” Nikki got up and took the two large bags from Jo.

“You look wrecked. Sit down and I’ll get you a cup of tea.”

Thanks,” panted Jo, sinking gratefully onto the seat Nikki had just vacated.

“I feel wrecked. But I got this beautiful crimson Mandarin jacket and

matching palazzos that will look great on Sharon. How’s it going?” she asked anxiously.

“Brilliantly,” said Nikki enthusiastically.

“You wouldn’t believe how Sharon’s hair has turned out. That hairdresser has worked miracles. And Helen looks amazing. Mind you, she looked amazing in the beginning.”

“Well,” said Jo, relieved to find that the make-over had been a success after all, ‘we’ll just make her “before” picture very, very small. Or else say she didn’t really get a make-over but just wanted to feel pampered for a day.”

Nikki had been right. Sharon’s new look really suited her.

The hairdresser has shaped her hair, added a rich chestnut rinse to make it glossy and given her a short, feather cut. The only thing I could think of she told Jo, ‘and it worked!”

Sharon looked a million dollars thanks to the elegant crimson suit that Jo had picked for her, teamed with the right make-up and a new haircut which emphasised her beautiful dark brown eyes.

“It’s fantastic.” She beamed at Jo. Thank you so much. I never thought I could-look like this.” She threw her arms around the fashion editor.

“I’m so pleased for you said Jo with a big smile. This is my favourite part of make-overs she added as the photographer took a couple of quick pictures, ‘when people are pleased with what we’ve done. Normally we just take the pictures and go. But today we’ve got a wonderful lunch lined up where you two ladies can show off your amazing ladies-who-lunch look!”

“Have you got any deodorant?” Jo whispered to Nikki in the restaurant loos. She’d managed to tone down her red face, but she still felt sticky after her run up Grafton Street.

Nikki handed Jo some deodorant and a bottle of Opium.

Thanks.” said Jo gratefully, spraying herself liberally.

“I’ve left my perfume in the office by mistake and I’m sure all my Tresor has worn off.”

She glanced at Nikki as the other woman expertly applied a fresh coat of subtle beige lipstick and wished, for once, that she didn’t work

with such a paragon of style and beauty. Nikki was always perfectly turned out, never wore chipped nail varnish and never got lipstick on her teeth. And today was no exception.

Jo ran a brush through her tortoiseshell curls and wished she had something to tie it back with because it was greasy at the roots. Then she followed Nikki into the restaurant. Helen, Sharon and Nell, the photographer, were at the table getting stuck into pre-lunch gin and tonics, the other two laughing at some filthy joke Nell had just told

Jo was just maneuvering herself around the table into her seat at the wall when she spotted them. The woman wore a figure-hugging black shift dress and an eye-catching red jacket which a very suave and elegant Mark Denton was helping her out of. He must have said something funny because she laughed suddenly, the sleek dark hair rippling as she leaned her head back. Even her laugh was warm, husky and sexy.

Bitch. Jo felt jealousy spear her as she watched Mark, very attractive in a steel grey suit to match his eyes, pull out the woman’s chair before sinking into his. He took the menu and wine list from the waiter almost without looking at him, eyes on the woman all the time. Not surprising, Jo thought maliciously, when the bitch was wearing a dress with a deep vee in the front showing a Grand Canyon cleavage that had to be thanks to a Wonderbra. Who the hell was she? thought Jo venomously, taking in the glint of serious gold bangles.

“Madam?” inquired a voice. Jo came to her senses to find a waiter smiling down at her, pen and order pad in hand.

“Oh er … I’ll have, what will I have …” she muttered, casting a quick glance at the menu she’d been dying to get her hands on ten minutes earlier.

Today’s specials are Dublin Bay prawns in Pernod and monkfish tails in a Provencale sauce,” said the waiter hopefully.

“Fine.” Jo shut the menu with a snap and handed it to him.

She didn’t care if she ordered rats’ tails in Pernod at that precise moment.

Nikki was filling Helen, Sharon and Nell in on the finer details of the party she’d been to at the weekend where one woman turned up with her husband and left with somebody else’s.

“She’s Dublin’s Zsa Zsa Gabor’ Nikki giggled.

“Ask her how many husbands she’s had and she’ll say “Mine or other people’s?”

Jo craned her head to see what Mark and the mystery woman were up to in the far corner of the restaurant.

Laughing a lot, she thought grimly, watching the dark head shake with mirth yet again. He doesn’t waste any time, does he?

“You know her, don’t you, Jo?” asked Nikki, breaking off mid-story to include Jo in the conversation.

“Know who?”

The Zsa Zsa woman at my party, Lizzie Somethingorother.

Lord, you’re a million miles away, aren’t you, Jo?” Then, noticing Jo’s face, which had gone quite pale, Nikki said, “Are you feeling all right? Are you ill?”

Jo grabbed the glass of water in front of her and took a huge gulp. “Fine,” she lied, ‘fine. I’m just hungry. Hand me a bread roll, will you?”

She sneaked a glance at Mark’s table just in time to see the waiter arrive with a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket.

What the hell were they celebrating? Jo half-listened to the conversation going on around her as she nibbled at her bread roll listlessly. Who was that woman? She thought murderously.

She was very quiet during the meal, barely touched her prawns and poked the monkfish around the plate in a desultory fashion.

The others drank three bottles of wine and were so merry that Nell had to use up three rolls of film before she got any pictures where the two newly made-over women weren’t laughing hysterically.

The waiter was serving coffee when Nikki finally noticed Mark and his companion.

“Look who’s having lunch with his ex,” she murmured to Jo with a smirk.

“I thought that liaison was finished.”

Jo dropped her teaspoon with a clatter.

“What?” she asked.

“It’s Eva Marot,” said Nikki.

“I thought they’d broken up a long time ago.” Trying not to look as though it mattered to her, Jo asked who Eva was.

“You must know.” Nikki raised one perfectly shaped blonde eyebrow in amazement.

“He was involved with her for years, even after she got married. She married some filthy-rich French guy and lives in London most of the time. But she comes back to Ireland a lot she’s an artist and she often paints here. The light is wonderful, apparently.”

Nikki took a sip of brandy. They were quite an item for a long time. Up to a year or so ago, I think,” she added thoughtfully.

“I can’t believe you never heard of her. She was Eva Ward before her marriage.”

“No, I didn’t hear anything,” said Jo faintly.

“She’s half-French on her mother’s side and very chic.

Always wears the most gorgeous clothes.” The other woman took another long look at Mark and his companion.

“That has to be Armani she’s wearing, don’t you think?”

“Mmm, you’re probably right.” Jo toyed with the brown sugar crystals in the bowl in front of her. Stop looking at them, Nikki, she pleaded silently. Or else Mark’ll come over and I couldn’t bear to meet him like this, with me looking like hell and him with Ms Epitome of Chic with the sexy laugh. I bet she whispers sweet nothings in French in bed, she thought jealously.

The waiter arrived with more brandy for everyone except Jo. Nikki turned her attention to Helen’s story about Brandy Alexanders and how the first one she’d ever had-made her instantly drunk and madly sexy.

“Have one,” squealed Nell.

“You’re getting the train home and both you and your husband will have something to remember today by.”

Jo smiled but her mind was miles away. She was the woman Suzanne had

told her about at the party in New York. The mystery woman who’d broken Mark’s heart, the one Suzanne assumed Jo knew all about. Eva Marot. Jo said the name to herself several times, wondering why she’d never even heard the tiniest piece of gossip about her and Mark.

To cap it all, Rhona must have known all along. Jo would just kill her when she got her. Imagine not saying anything about Mark’s past love? She was staring blankly into her half-drunk cup of coffee when she heard that deep, rich voice she’d recognise anywhere.