has.’ Tom Ryan shrugged again, would have blessed himself if she hadn’t been eyeing him suspiciously. Thank God she didn’t know the truth.
EIGHT
‘ What do you mean you met a guy in a cab and he’s taking you to dinner?’ Tiffany’s New York accent was always harsher when she was shrieking. She shrieked a lot – Caroline had known what was coming next, had been holding her rose gold BlackBerry Bold at arm’s length as Tiffany replied. Now, she brought it back to her mouth so she could speak.
‘ Exactly what I said. I can’t say no now can I? That would be too rude. And I don’t know how to get in touch with him anyway.’
Standing in her dressing room, the tiny beads on her La Perla push-up bra sparkling under the spotlights like tiny sugar crystals, Caroline reached up to drag another dress along the rail in the glass-fronted wardrobe, her mind back on the problem of what to wear tonight, only half-focused on her conversation with Tiffany.
‘ But he could be anyone...’
Caroline cut in, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, he’s in the Royal Navy for goodness sake, he was going to the Embassy.’ Perhaps it was the disbelief in her friend’s voice that riled her, or the fact that actually, maybe, she was right, but Caroline found herself snapping...’And we’re going to dinner, not to bed. It’ll be in a public place.’
Caroline knew she sounded tart but she couldn’t help it. Tiffany hadn’t a clue about men. No sooner had they graduated from the Sorbonne than she’d ended up in Boston, in a mausoleum of a house making cupcakes for church socials, convinced her life was perfect with her university professor husband, Bart. Bart! What sort of a name was that?
‘ I do hope you’re not going to bed. Does he know about Sebastian, does he know you’re engaged?’
‘ Of course!’
‘ Caroline...’ Tiffany’s tone was warning. ‘Did you tell him?’
‘ I’m wearing a rock Tiffany, the Wingfield Sapphire, you can’t exactly miss it.’ Unless you’re wearing gloves, Caroline paused, wincing, waiting for Tiffany to put two and two together. Thankfully she didn’t.
‘ Good, just so you’ve got it straight from the start.’
‘ Of course everything’s straight. Honestly Tiff... as if...’
‘ I’m calling you later. About nine your time. Leave your phone on. Where are you going for dinner?’
‘ I’ve no idea yet.’
‘ What if Sebastian sees you? Or one of his friends. It’s Dublin, Caroline, not Paris. You’ll be seen. Those Irish don’t understand about...about, well, affairs, the way the French do.’
‘ What do you mean the way the French do?’ Caroline tried to sound affronted, ‘I’m not having an affair. And it’s not a French thing anyway. You Americans aren’t much better, think of Bill and Monica.’
‘ Exactly! Look at Bill and Monica, look what happened there.’
Caroline let out a snort. She wasn’t in the mood for a row with her oldest school chum right now.
‘ Look, I’m not hiding anything. He could be selling me insurance.’
‘ Hmm, I bet it’ll look just like he’s selling you insurance. When did your insurance agent last take you out to dinner?’
‘ Oh, I don’t know...look, I’ve got to go. Don’t fuss. It’ll all be fine. Love you darling, I really must fly...’
Caroline clicked off her phone and looked at it for a moment, deep in thought.
Tiffany had a point. How could she have dinner on her own with a man when half the city knew she was engaged to Sebastian Wingfield? And what if someone saw them? Dublin was a ridiculously small city – everyone knew everyone else. Tiffany was right – what was acceptable, normal in fact in Paris, just didn’t wash here. Biting her lip, Caroline leaned back against the marble vanity unit, the chill stone cutting into the fine mesh of her low-cut panties.
All she needed was to be photographed coming out of a restaurant – like one of those actresses caught out and about with their
EIGHT
‘ What do you mean you met a guy in a cab and he’s taking you to dinner?’ Tiffany’s New York accent was always harsher when she was shrieking. She shrieked a lot – Caroline had known what was coming next, had been holding her rose gold BlackBerry Bold at arm’s length as Tiffany replied. Now, she brought it back to her mouth so she could speak.
‘ Exactly what I said. I can’t say no now can I? That would be too rude. And I don’t know how to get in touch with him anyway.’
Standing in her dressing room, the tiny beads on her La Perla push-up bra sparkling under the spotlights like tiny sugar crystals, Caroline reached up to drag another dress along the rail in the glass-fronted wardrobe, her mind back on the problem of what to wear tonight, only half-focused on her conversation with Tiffany.
‘ But he could be anyone...’
Caroline cut in, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, he’s in the Royal Navy for goodness sake, he was going to the Embassy.’ Perhaps it was the disbelief in her friend’s voice that riled her, or the fact that actually, maybe, she was right, but Caroline found herself snapping...’And we’re going to dinner, not to bed. It’ll be in a public place.’
Caroline knew she sounded tart but she couldn’t help it. Tiffany hadn’t a clue about men. No sooner had they graduated from the Sorbonne than she’d ended up in Boston, in a mausoleum of a house making cupcakes for church socials, convinced her life was perfect with her university professor husband, Bart. Bart! What sort of a name was that?
‘ I do hope you’re not going to bed. Does he know about Sebastian, does he know you’re engaged?’
‘ Of course!’
‘ Caroline...’ Tiffany’s tone was warning. ‘Did you tell him?’
‘ I’m wearing a rock Tiffany, the Wingfield Sapphire, you can’t exactly miss it.’ Unless you’re wearing gloves, Caroline paused, wincing, waiting for Tiffany to put two and two together. Thankfully she didn’t.
‘ Good, just so you’ve got it straight from the start.’
‘ Of course everything’s straight. Honestly Tiff... as if...’
‘ I’m calling you later. About nine your time. Leave your phone on. Where are you going for dinner?’
‘ I’ve no idea yet.’
‘ What if Sebastian sees you? Or one of his friends. It’s Dublin, Caroline, not Paris. You’ll be seen. Those Irish don’t understand about...about, well, affairs, the way the French do.’
‘ What do you mean the way the French do?’ Caroline tried to sound affronted, ‘I’m not having an affair. And it’s not a French thing anyway. You Americans aren’t much better, think of Bill and Monica.’
‘ Exactly! Look at Bill and Monica, look what happened there.’
Caroline let out a snort. She wasn’t in the mood for a row with her oldest school chum right now.
‘ Look, I’m not hiding anything. He could be selling me insurance.’
‘ Hmm, I bet it’ll look just like he’s selling you insurance. When did your insurance agent last take you out to dinner?’
‘ Oh, I don’t know...look, I’ve got to go. Don’t fuss. It’ll all be fine. Love you darling, I really must fly...’
Caroline clicked off her phone and looked at it for a moment, deep in thought.
Tiffany had a point. How could she have dinner on her own with a man when half the city knew she was engaged to Sebastian Wingfield? And what if someone saw them? Dublin was a ridiculously small city – everyone knew everyone else. Tiffany was right – what was acceptable, normal in fact in Paris, just didn’t wash here. Biting her lip, Caroline leaned back against the marble vanity unit, the chill stone cutting into the fine mesh of her low-cut panties.
All she needed was to be photographed coming out of a restaurant – like one of those actresses caught out and about with their
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