For Love or Money: A laugh out loud, heartwarming romantic comedy Read online

  For Love or Money

  Clodagh Murphy

  FOR LOVE OR MONEY

  CLODAGH MURPHY

  Clodagh Murphy © 2020

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, or transmitted in any form or by any means other than that in which it was purchased without the prior written permission of the author.

  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.

  Ebook ISBN: 9781916265608

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. All characters portrayed in this publication are the work of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Published by Balally Books

  Cover design by Stuart Bache

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  A Note From The Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Clodagh Murphy

  1

  Lesley knew the singles dinner party was a write-off when she found herself turning it into an anecdote halfway through her deconstructed prawn cocktail. She was already trying out character sketches of her fellow guests, mentally rehearsing how she’d describe them to her friend Romy to make her laugh. By the time the perfectly done beef Wellington was served, she had composed a couple of witty tweets and was mulling over a Facebook post – something pithy and poignant about her relationship status remaining unchanged. Maybe she’d try to find a GIF to go with it.

  She was more relieved than anything. Dinner Dates was legendary for its high success rate, and Helen O’Neill’s talent for matchmaking meant that there was a lengthy waiting list for a place at one of her weekly dinner parties. But the truth was, Lesley was in no hurry to get into another serious relationship after her break-up with Rob. In fact, she was excited about being single again, and was only here tonight because her sister Katrina had kept on at her about it, and she’d eventually relented to get her off her back. At the time, the first available slot had seemed impossibly far away, and, after signing up, she’d promptly forgotten about it.

  But her turn had finally rolled around on this cold Friday night in April, so here she was. She could see how Dinner Dates had earned its reputation as the golden ticket among Dublin’s singles. Everyone was very nice, the wine was flowing, the food was sublime, and Helen, presiding at the top of the table, was the perfect hostess. But Lesley had known there was no one here she wanted to shag as soon as the ten assembled singletons had introduced themselves to each other over pre-dinner drinks in the conservatory.

  ‘So that was that,’ the man beside her said, breaking into her thoughts. She turned to him: Matthew, thirtyish, graphic designer; quite cute if you could overlook the hipster goatee, which Lesley couldn’t.

  He was looking at her expectantly, and she realised she had no idea what he’d been saying. She nodded and gave a vague smile that she hoped would cover all bases, hovering somewhere between sympathy, regret and wry amusement. Luckily, she seemed to have got away with it as Matthew smiled back at her. She should pay attention: be present in the moment. The trouble was she was crap at being ‘in the now’. She knew that because she had done a Buddhist meditation course, and she had totally flunked it. She had paid a hundred euro to sit cross-legged on the floor of a damp basement in Rathmines every night for six weeks while she thought about what to have for dinner and wondered if the very fit young monk who taught them would be really kind and non-judgmental in bed, or whether he was even allowed to have sex. She wondered where Jampa was now ...

  ‘So, what about you?’ Matthew asked her. ‘Have you ever ...?’ He left the sentence hanging.

  Fuck! She’d zoned out again. Ever what? Ever been married? Done a bungee jump? Hosted an orgy? What?

  ‘Um ... just the once,’ she said falteringly.

  ‘Oh.’ Matthew reared back, eyebrows raised. Lesley hoped she hadn’t admitted to hosting an orgy.

  She was relieved when Helen gave the signal for the men to move places as a couple of teenage girls acting as waitresses for the evening started to clear the plates.

  ‘Finally! I’ve been waiting to sit here all evening.’ Al, a thirty-something architect, was giving her a twinkly smile as he took a seat beside her. He was tall and ramrod-straight; handsome in an old-fashioned matinee idol kind of way. She could picture him in an old black and white movie, all stiff upper lip and quiet dignity as he led his adoring troops off to their death, while he doled out encouragement in his clipped, officer-class English accent.

  Al was good-looking and friendly, but she’d already ruled him out when they’d chatted briefly in the conservatory. She liked her men more rough and ready. Besides, everyone here was looking for a serious relationship, and she was in no hurry to get coupled up again.

  ‘I’ve never met a real-life private detective before,’ Al said. ‘That must be interesting.’

  ‘It is. Although there’s a fair amount of grunt work involved. It’s not all eating doughnuts out of a paper bag and watching people bonking through binoculars.’

  ‘It’s not?’ Al looked disappointed.

  ‘Well … it mostly is,’ Lesley said, feeling bad for shattering his illusions. ‘I just said that because I don’t like to boast.’

  The fact was she’d never met a real-life private detective either, but she’d decided it would be fun to pass herself off as one tonight. She’d always fancied herself as an amateur sleuth, and since she’d already decided she wouldn’t be seeing any of these people again, she figured there was no harm in it. Besides, it would be a lot more interesting for everyone else than struggling to make small talk about her freelance IT business.

  ‘What sort of work do you do?’ Al asked.

  ‘It’s mostly cheaters,’ she said.

  ‘Hence the bonking through binoculars. And is there a lot of demand for your services?’

  ‘Oh yeah, I’m kept pretty busy. There are a lot of love rats out there. You’d be surprised.’

  ‘Sorry for interrupting—’ Orla, sitting opposite her, leaned across the table ‘—but I know someone who could really use your services. Do you do honey traps, by any chance?’

>   ‘Yes!’ Lesley said. ‘That’s my favourite kind of work.’

  ‘Honey traps?’ Ronan, beside her, asked, fingering his collar. ‘Is that a real thing?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘And um ... how does it work exactly?’

  ‘Well, I get chatting to men on social media, play along if they get flirty with me, and see how far they go. Let them send me snaps of their tackle and whatnot. When they suggest meeting up in real life, bingo! I bring them down.’

  ‘Gosh,’ Ronan gulped. ‘Isn’t that—’

  ‘Brilliant!’ Orla said.

  ‘I was going to say illegal.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s great,’ Orla said. ‘I wish I’d known I could hire somebody like you when I suspected my ex of cheating.’

  ‘Me too,’ Janice beside her said. ‘Do you have a card?’ she asked Lesley.

  ‘Er ... no, not on me.’

  ‘Well, give me your number, then.’

  ‘I’d like your number too, please,’ Orla said, reaching down to take her phone out of her bag. ‘I’d love to tell my friend about you.’

  ‘Oh, well ... I don’t like to ... I mean I have to be very discreet in my line of work. You understand,’ Lesley said, tapping her nose. Damn! Why did she have to get carried away and take it too far?

  ‘But you’re not at work now, are you?’ Ronan asked wide-eyed, fidgeting with his tie.

  She was sorry she’d started this now. So she was glad of the diversion when the door was suddenly flung open and a harassed-looking man burst into the room.

  ‘Helen!’ he panted.

  Their hostess looked up, startled. ‘Conor? What—’

  ‘Ian McKellen was at the show tonight. He’s coming for supper!’

  Lesley recalled that Helen’s husband was a bigwig in one of Dublin’s main theatres. She couldn’t remember which one – she hated the theatre.

  ‘So you’ll have to get rid of this lot.’ Conor gestured at the guests, who were all gazing up at him in astonishment. ‘Have they eaten all the food?’

  ‘Well, we’ve just finished the mains.’

  ‘You’ll have to rustle up something else, then. I’ve got Cathy stalling him in the green room, but he’ll be here soon.’

  ‘I suppose I could do a quick risotto. But we haven’t had dessert yet.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Gateau Diane.’

  ‘You can give them doggy bags.’

  The singletons watched this exchange as if they were at a tennis match, their heads swivelling between Helen and her husband. They turned to Helen now, the ball back in her court, all their hopes resting on her return.

  ‘Good idea,’ she said, and you could almost hear the collective groan as she lost the point. ‘I’ll start parcelling up cake for everyone to take home,’ she said as she stood. ‘And you can all have a refund, or come along another night for free, whichever you prefer.’

  ‘But we haven’t had a chance to talk to everyone properly yet,’ Matthew piped up from the end of the table as Helen left the room.

  ‘You’ve had two courses and pre-drinks,’ Conor said. ‘You’ve already made your minds up about each other. Haven’t you?’ he demanded, looking sternly around the table.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Lesley said, reaching down to grab her bag, as the other guests looked at each other uncertainly. She didn’t need to be told twice.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t see you there, Aloysius,’ Conor was saying as she hurried to the door. ‘You’re welcome to stay for supper, if you’d like.’

  She turned around and realised he was speaking to Al. Aloysius! Well, he’d kept that quiet.

  In the hall, Helen handed her a little cake box. ‘Where’s Al?’ she asked, looking over Lesley’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s still in there. I think he’s going to stay – your husband said he’s allowed.’

  ‘But he’s already eaten. And I thought you two would really hit it off.’

  ‘Don’t worry about not getting us all paired up. This isn’t my first time at the fair. I know not everyone goes home with a prize.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry you didn’t have better luck. But feel free to come back another time – no charge.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She didn’t like to say it to Helen, who clearly felt bad about the way the evening had ended, but Lesley didn’t think she’d be taking up the offer of a return visit. She was a one-strike-and-you’re-out kind of person: decisive. She liked that about herself.

  She buttoned her coat and burrowed her gloved hands into the pockets as she went out, her shoulders automatically tensing against the frosty night air. It was still early and she didn’t have far to walk. She’d be home by ten-thirty. She’d make a cup of tea and have her cake on the sofa with Graham Norton. On the whole, it had been quite a satisfactory evening. And she had the Ian McKellen story. As anecdotes went, it was a pretty good one.

  2

  She was just out the gate when she heard the door close behind her.

  ‘Lesley! Wait!’

  She turned to see Al hurrying down the road after her.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, sounding pleased with himself as he caught up with her. He had a red scarf wrapped around his neck, and his hands were buried in his pockets. The tip of his nose was already turning red. ‘Are you getting a cab?’

  ‘No, I’m walking home. I’m not far from here.’

  ‘Oh, me too,’ he said, falling into step beside her.

  Lesley was surprised. She could have sworn he’d said he lived in Blackrock.

  ‘Well, that was interesting,’ he said, smiling at her.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not every day you don’t get to meet Sir Ian McKellen. It’s definitely one to tell the grandkids.’

  ‘So, I was wondering if you’d like to invite me back to your place.’

  Lesley stopped dead and looked up at him. ‘Oh, you were, were you?’

  ‘Yes. I thought we could have our cake, and um ...’

  ‘Eat it?’

  ‘Exactly. We were meant to be sharing dessert anyway. What do you say?’

  ‘No, thanks.’ She started walking again.

  ‘I’d ask you back to mine, only I’m, er ... having some work done on my kitchen,’ Al said, keeping pace with her. ‘But we could go and get a drink somewhere, if you like.’

  ‘Look, just because we’re the only two left doesn’t mean we have to get together. That’s not how it works. Are you new to the dating scene?’

  ‘Um ... not exactly. Sort of. I’m a bit out of practice, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, I’m an old hand, so let me give you a tip. You’re not going to hit it off with someone every time. Don’t feel you have to flog a dead horse just to get your money’s worth. Just chalk it up to experience. Cut your losses and call it a night. That’s what I’m doing.’

  Al raised his eyebrows. ‘But it’s only ten o’clock.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You can’t call it a night at ten o’clock. It’s a late evening at best.’

  ‘I’m not saying you have to go straight to bed. You could watch some TV or ... I don’t know, whatever you like to do.’

  ‘I can? Gosh, thanks. Anyway, I’m not asking you out because we’re the only two left.’

  ‘Oh, so now you’re asking me out? That escalated quickly.’ She stopped and eyed him suspiciously. ‘Are you a chubby chaser, Al?’

  ‘A chubby chaser!’ He laughed.

  Lesley started walking again and he ran a little to catch up.

  ‘No, I’m not a chubby chaser.’

  ‘And yet here you are chasing me.’

  ‘I just wanted to get a chance to talk to you, get to know you better.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why? Well, wasn’t that the point of this evening? I thought you seemed nice ... interesting, you know, and bright. And I liked the look of you.’ He shrugged. ‘You know, the usual.’

  ‘No woman wants to be with a chubby chaser, Al – not even chubby wom
en. I mean, they don’t want that to be the reason someone’s with them, you know?’

  ‘I promise you I’m not a chubby chaser. Besides, you’re not even chubby. You’re—’

  ‘If you say curvy, I might have to hurt you.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say curvy. I would never say curvy.’

  ‘What were you going to say, then? And it better not be cuddly – that’s even worse.’

  He looked at her warily. ‘How do you feel about statuesque?’

  ‘That means built like a brick shithouse, doesn’t it?’

  ‘No!’ He frowned. ‘It means built like a Greek goddess – the sort of woman who inspires sculptors to carve them in marble.’

  ‘Oh.’ She didn’t want to smile, but her lips were curling annoyingly. ‘I suppose that’s all right.’

  ‘So, what do you say?’ he asked, stopping as they came to the corner of the road. ‘Fancy a drink?’

  ‘Well, I’m a bit tired, Al. Maybe some other time.’ She gave him a polite smile and turned to the left, thinking they were parting ways. But he quickly fell into step beside her again.

  ‘Are you still here? I already told you I’m not going out with you.’

  ‘Still, I thought I could walk you home at least.’

  ‘Walk me home? Is it nineteen-fifty all of a sudden and nobody told me?’