Frisky Business

  FRISKY BUSINESS

  Clodagh Murphy

  Clodagh Murphy was born in Dublin. She moved to London in the 1980s and lived there for several years. She currently lives in Dublin with her beloved laptop. She is an aunt to five nephews and one niece.

  Also by Clodagh Murphy

  The Disengagement Ring

  Girl in a Spin

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2012 Clodagh Murphy

  The right of Clodagh Murphy to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in Ireland in 2012 by HACHETTE BOOKS IRELAND

  1

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 4447 2625 1

  Hachette Books Ireland

  8 Castlecourt Centre

  Castleknock

  Dublin 15, Ireland

  A division of Hachette UK Ltd

  338 Euston Road, London NW1 3BH

  www.hachette.ie

  To Trish and Emer, the best friends a sister could have

  Acknowledgements

  Huge thanks to:

  My wonderful agent, Ger Nichol, for all the support and encouragement, and endless patience when I’m being neurotic.

  Ciara Doorley and Claire Rourke for bringing out the best in the book.

  Deirdre Mangaoang at Médecins Sans Frontières in Dublin for answering my questions about working with MSF.

  Mark Stephens, RIBA MRIAI (www.MarkStephensArchitects.com) for all the property development advice. Any mistakes are mine.

  Louise Clark for the use of the house in Leitrim Quay, where I wrote a large chunk of the manuscript, and without which this book would have had no middle.

  Lesley Burke, who made the winning bid in the Authors for Japan auction to have a character named after her. Your generosity is greatly appreciated, and I hope you approve of your namesake. Thanks also to my lovely friend Keris who set up the auction, which raised over £13,000 for tsunami relief.

  Everyone at We Should Be Writing for being supportive, chatty, clever, funny, and generally brilliant company online and in real life.

  All the readers who loved my previous books and got in touch to tell me. It means a lot.

  Finally, everyone who has bought this book. I hope you have fun reading it.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Ad-card

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter One

  A strong wind blew down Curve Road, shaking leaves from the trees and rustling the bush at number 27 where Romy Fitzgerald was stringing pumpkin lanterns. She looked up at the sky, pleased to see it was still cloudless, promising a dry night for the trick-or-treating children. Despite the wind, it was surprisingly mild, and she had abandoned her jacket on the grass and was working on the garden decorations in just a sweatshirt. When she had finished stringing the lanterns in the bushes, she tied Hallowe’en balloons to the gate, winding the strings around its wrought green metal. Then she folded her arms and stood back, examining her handiwork. As well as the lanterns and balloons, fat pumpkins lined the gravel path to the steps of her big pink house, orange and black candles glowed in the windows, a large skeleton stood sentry at the door and a ghost hanging from the cherry blossom tree swayed eerily in the breeze. She knew it was a bit over the top, but at least children would be left in no confusion as to whether or not they were welcome to call.

  Satisfied that the house looked suitably festive, she gathered her jacket, tools and baby monitor up from the grass and bounded up the steps to the front door. She was just letting herself into her flat when the hall door opened and her oldest tenant May came in, laden down with shopping bags.

  ‘Romy, the house looks amazing!’ she said slightly breathlessly as she unwound a colourful scarf from around her neck. ‘Fair play to you for going to all this trouble. It’s magical.’

  ‘Thanks, May. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘I’d better not, thanks,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘Frank’s waiting for me and I’m already late. I got a bit carried away in La Senza.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll see you later then, for the party?’

  ‘Yes, we’re looking forward to it. What time would you like us to come?’

  ‘Well, it’s officially kicking off at seven thirty, but come over whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll make it for seven thirty,’ she said. ‘That will give us plenty of time to do a bit of work on our project. We’re almost halfway through the book now, but there are some pretty challenging positions coming up.’

  ‘Oh?’ Romy nodded interestedly, hoping May wouldn’t elaborate.

  ‘Yes, the next one is a sort of wheelbarrow. I have to get down on the floor on all fours, and then Frank lifts my legs up from behind—’

  ‘Gosh, that sounds … strenuous. Well, be careful,’ Romy said, turning her key in the door.

  ‘Oh, we will. Safe sex has a whole new meaning at our age,’ May said, chuckling. ‘Luckily we’re both quite fit and we do work at staying supple. I do lots of yoga, and Frank has his karate. But we’re neither of us getting any younger.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think it to look at you,’ Romy said, turning back to May. She didn’t know how old May was exactly, but she guessed she must be in her late sixties. Still attractive, Romy thought she must have been stunning in her youth. With a figure that many twenty-year-olds would envy, and her silver hair cut in an elegant, shiny bob, she was a walking advert for growing old gracefully – at least until you got into conversation with her.

  ‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘I do my best. Still, it’s probably only a matter of time before arthritis kicks in. If we don’t do these things now, we might never get another opportunity. Seize the day, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, well – good for you!’ Romy smiled brightly.

  ‘Sorry, dear, is this TMI, as they say nowadays?’ May seemed to have finally noticed Romy’s discomfort with the conversation.

  ‘No, not at all,’ she said, smiling at May. ‘I just need to start getting things ready.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Well, see you later, Romy, love. I’ll let you know how we get on.’

  ‘Great! Bye,’ Romy called, letting herself into her flat as May turned and headed for the stairs.

  It was a s
pacious high-ceilinged flat on the first floor of the large detached house. Decorated in neutral shades of cream and taupe, it was saved from characterless blandness by splashes of red on accent walls and the large red sofa that dominated the room. She had originally decorated the flat for a quick sale, along with all the other flats in the house, but then the recession had struck and the bottom had fallen out of the property market. Romy had found herself with six beautiful upmarket flats that she couldn’t sell without making a huge loss – and probably not even then. So she had decided to let them and live on the income. She had moved into this one herself, adding enough of her personal touches to it to make it feel more like her home than just a temporary stop on the property ladder.

  The large living room had already been transformed for the party. Strings of orange and black bats flew across the ceiling, and the imposing mantelpiece was covered in an array of Hallowe’en knick-knacks interspersed with fat orange and black candles. A home-made pumpkin lantern stood in the grate.

  When she had stowed her tools and jacket in the cupboard, Romy went straight through to the kitchen, which was filled with the warm, comforting aromas of cooking. A big pot of chilli was bubbling away in the oven and a toffee apple cake was cooling on a wire rack on the worktop. She put the baby monitor on the counter and turned the hob on under a pot of toffee she had made earlier. As she waited for it to heat up, she washed apples and stuck wooden skewers into them, lining them up on the counter ready for dipping. She knew Lesley thought she was daft going to this much trouble.

  ‘Just get bags of those fun-sized bars,’ she’d said earlier in the week when Romy had outlined her plans. ‘Kids nowadays won’t even know what a toffee apple is.’

  But Romy thought that that was sad. She wanted kids to know what a toffee apple was. She liked things done properly. She was a firm believer in stockings at Christmas, and Hallowe’en absolutely had to include toffee apples. She had always loved this time of year – and she loved it more than ever now. As she stood calmly dipping apples in the warm toffee and placing them on a tray to cool, she thought about how much her life had changed since this time last year, her eyes flicking to the baby monitor, its red and green lights dancing in time with the snuffling and gurgling sounds that emanated from it.

  When she had dipped the last apple, tidied the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher, she went to her bedroom and bent over the crib in the corner where her son Luke was sleeping, getting caught up as she always did in adoring his tiny curled fingers, his perfect eyelashes, his pillow-soft cheeks.

  ‘Happy birthday, Luke,’ she whispered, smiling down at him. Though he was only three months old, she couldn’t help thinking of today as his birthday. It was the day she had got him, the day his life had begun – conceived in a cupboard at a Hallowe’en party. It wasn’t a very auspicious start in life.

  One year earlier

  ‘Darth Vader’s checking you out.’

  Romy turned to Lesley, who nodded across the room. Following her friend’s gaze through the throng of animals, robots and movie characters, she found herself eyeballing a very tall, imposing Dark Lord – at least she assumed she was eyeballing him. It was hard to tell beneath the shiny black helmet. He might just as well have been staring into space or had his eyes closed.

  ‘Why don’t you go over to the dark side and introduce yourself,’ Lesley said, nudging Romy with her elbow.

  ‘No thanks,’ Romy said, grabbing another glass of champagne as a uniformed waitress passed with a tray. ‘Who knows what might be lurking underneath that cloak?’ She carefully took a sip of champagne, cursing the dress code that had insisted on full fancy dress complete with masks.

  ‘There might be something very nice lurking under there.You’ll never know if you don’t try. I bet he’s really rich.’

  ‘What makes you think that? It doesn’t cost all that much to hire a costume.’

  ‘He’s here, isn’t he? If he’s a friend of David’s, he’s bound to be rich.’

  ‘We’re here, aren’t we?’

  ‘True,’ Lesley conceded. ‘Still, you have to admit that costume is pretty ritzy.’

  ‘Maybe he owns it,’ Romy said. ‘He’s probably some Star Wars nerd. Anyway, I don’t care if he’s Bill Gates, I’m not interested.’

  ‘He’s not Bill Gates,’ Lesley said. ‘He’s too tall.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care if he’s not Bill Gates either – I’m still not interested.’

  Lesley turned to her with an exasperated sigh. ‘When was the last time you got laid?’ she asked, her hand on her hip. She might have looked mildly threatening if she hadn’t been dressed as an Oompa-Loompa.

  ‘It was … a while ago.’

  ‘It was Gary, right? That was nine months ago, Romy. Nine months!’

  ‘Well, I’ve waited nine months. I can wait a bit longer.’

  ‘How much longer? Nothing’s ever going to happen if you don’t put yourself out there, take a few chances.’

  ‘I am putting myself out there. I’m here, amn’t I?’ Romy said, waving a hand around to indicate the party.

  She was here, but she really wished she wasn’t. She had only come because Lesley was so excited about getting invited to a party at David Kinsella’s house and hadn’t wanted to come alone. She had begged and pleaded with Romy to come, until eventually Romy had capitulated. It wasn’t the sort of party they would usually be invited to. They had been at school with David Kinsella, but since then he had become an entrepreneur, and made billions from a business empire that had started out with a single bar, but had grown and diversified to encompass strings of nightclubs and restaurants all over the country as well as a vast property portfolio. He had consolidated his position by marrying an heiress and well-known socialite – a former model who now spent most of her time eating out for charity. Lesley and Romy no longer mixed in the same circles as David, but he occasionally threw the old crowd a bone and invited them all to one of his flash parties. Lesley had been gagging at the prospect of a night of free champagne, a nose around David’s mansion and the chance to get a look at how the other half live. Romy was trying to get into the spirit of it for Lesley’s sake, but it wasn’t working. She really didn’t want to be here.

  ‘I shouldn’t have come,’ she said to Lesley.

  ‘Sure what else would you be doing?’

  ‘That new tenant I was telling you about moved in yesterday. I could have had her to dinner, helped her get settled.’

  ‘Romy, you’re her landlady, not her mother.’

  ‘I should hope not! She’s old enough to be my grandmother.’

  ‘That’s a bit sad, isn’t it – renting at that age? I hope I don’t end up like that.’

  ‘You could do worse. I don’t think there’s anything sad about May. I get the impression she’s had a very interesting life – and still has. When she came to see the place, she asked me if it would be okay for her to have men stay over.’

  ‘Fair play to her!’

  ‘She probably has a more active sex life than I have.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard.’

  ‘Well at least someone in my house will be getting some action.’

  ‘A pensioner! Does that not make you feel even a little bit ashamed of yourself?’

  ‘Nope.’

  Romy took a sip of her champagne and glanced across the room. Darth Vader was still staring, and she looked away again quickly. ‘Someone should have told that guy it’s rude to stare,’ she mumbled to Lesley. ‘What’s he looking at anyway? There’s nothing to see here.’

  ‘Maybe he just likes the cut of your jib,’ Lesley said cheerfully.

  ‘He hasn’t seen my jib. He can’t see my face and it’s not as if I’m showing any flesh.’ She had rejected all the slutty costumes in the shops and made herself a proper old-fashioned Red Riding Hood outfit.

  ‘No, you could be a nun,’ Lesley said.

  ‘Why doesn’t he stare at that Snow White right beside him? She looks like she’
d be glad of the attention.’

  ‘God, is that who she’s supposed to be? I’d never have guessed.’

  ‘Yeah – Snow White, the lap-dancing years.’

  Lesley laughed.

  ‘Damn!’ Romy said as she tried to sip champagne through her mask. ‘Why did David insist on these bloody masks? It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘He gave me some guff about how it would make us all equal and help break the ice – get everyone mingling. Otherwise, you know, us plebs might be too in awe of his cronies to talk to them – and they wouldn’t bother to talk to the likes of us.’

  ‘Huh! I think he was just trying to skimp on the champagne.’

  ‘I bet he just did it so he can get off with anyone he likes and claim afterwards that he thought it was his wife.’

  ‘Well, well, well, who have we got here?’ A very fat Shrek suddenly loomed up on them. ‘Your host at your service,’ he said, with a little bow.

  Crap, Romy thought. Maybe David wanted the masks so he could sneak up on his guests and catch them bitching about him.

  ‘Hi, David, great party,’ Lesley said. ‘I’m Lesley, and Red Riding Hood here is Romy.’

  ‘Ah, great to see you, girls. I hope you’re enjoying yourselves.’

  David may have done better for himself than his old classmates, but at least he wasn’t ageing well. His hair was thinning, and years of good living had left him paunchy and bloated.

  ‘So, what are you girls up to these days? Still dabbling in property, Romy?’

  Romy seethed at his condescending use of the word ‘dabbling’. He knew damn well that she was a full-time property developer. She may only be a one-man band, but she was very good at what she did, and was well respected in the business. She had a solid reputation as a first-class developer and her properties were always in demand and sold easily – or as easily as the market would allow. ‘Yes, I’m still in the property business,’ she replied, determined not to let him get to her.