Someone Like You

‘Wow,’ Emma said admiringly. ‘A woman with a mission.’

‘I’ve got a mission all right – to make a career for myself. I got side-tracked for a few years,’ she added, not wanting to mention that the side-track had been nearly ten years with Harry, who’d let her sink into the squalor of coupledom before abandoning her for his South American trip.

‘And your mission,’ Hannah said to Leonie, deciding to change the subject, ‘is to find yourself a man, because that’s what you want. If I can turn myself into an office manager, you can find a man.’

‘Men, the root of all evil,’ sighed Leonie, starting on her second glass of wine. ‘I don’t mean that, really. I love men. That’s the problem,’ she added gloomily. ‘I think I scare them off. But I never thought of a dating agency. To be honest, I always thought only oddballs tried blind dating. Knowing my luck, I’d meet a serial killer or some nut with a fondness for PVC knickers and autoerotic asphyxia.’

Hannah laughed grimly. ‘I’ve met enough nuts without the help of a dating agency. Not PVC fetishists, mind you, but still mad. My last long-term boyfriend should have come with a government health warning and I met him in the safest place in the world: McDonald’s at lunchtime. So you may as well try dating agencies, Leonie. At least you get to pick who you’ll meet and who you won’t bother with.’

‘Harrison Ford,’ said Leonie dreamily. ‘I want a Harrison Ford clone who loves children, animals and overweight blonde divorcées.’

‘What about your man?’ Hannah asked Emma, who immediately smiled at the thought of Pete.

‘He’s lovely,’ she admitted. ‘I’m very lucky. He’s kind and funny and I love him to bits.’ Pete’s face appeared in her mind: the open, smiling face with the brown eyes, big grin and the dark hair cropped close to his scalp. Well, Pete always argued, there was no point wearing your hair long when there was so little of it. She loved his seriously receding hairline, loved kissing him on the top of his head and telling him that bald men were more virile. She wouldn’t have wanted Harrison Ford, or even Tom Cruise, for that matter. She couldn’t imagine either of them making her breakfast in bed when she felt ill, or massaging her shoulders when she got backache or insisting that she read a magazine while he made dinner on nights when she felt tired. Or leaving a lovely note buried in her suitcase telling her he loved her and that he couldn’t wait for her to get home. Pete adored her. Only his dislike of her father meant he’d let her go away for a week without him.

‘We’ve been married three years and he’s really good to me,’ she said. Then, because she couldn’t resist, she told them about the sweet note he’d left hidden between her T-shirts in the suitcase.

‘Oooh, that’s lovely,’ Leonie said.

She and Hannah were half-way down their second glasses of wine and they’d all been talking happily about why they’d decided to come to Egypt when the sound of Jimmy O’Brien’s booming voice could be heard from the doorway.

‘…if this is their idea of a first-class boat, I’ll be having words with that young courier woman, I’m telling you,’ he was saying loudly to another guest. ‘The shower’s useless and my towels got soaked because the shower curtain wasn’t any good. Call that first class? I don’t think so. Rip-off merchants, that’s what these bloody fellas are, pretending this is a first-class boat. Hmmph.

‘I’m not sitting outside,’ he added to his wife, ‘we’ll be eaten alive. Bloody mosquitoes.’

Hannah watched as Emma visibly shrank into her seat, her eyes briefly filled with an emotion Hannah could identify easily: wariness. Hannah’s mother’s face had often looked that way, usually when her father rolled home after a day at the races, roaring drunk, bad-tempered and looking for someone to take it out on. He’d been small and ran to fat, mostly beer fat, unlike Emma’s father who was a formidable man, tall and strong. A man who could intimidate people and liked doing it. He didn’t need alcohol to make him bad-tempered: it was obvious he was like that all the time.

Emma looked as if she’d rather have been keelhauled than face an evening with her parents. A surge of pity made Hannah reach out and touch her arm gently: ‘Would you like to sit with us at a separate table tonight?’ she asked quietly.

Emma looked relieved at the idea, then shook her head. ‘I couldn’t, they’ll expect…’

‘Say you’re sure they’d like their first evening to be just for themselves, a romantic evening where you’re not a gooseberry,’ Hannah urged.

Emma stifled the desire to snigger at the thought of her parents having a romantic evening. Her father reckoned romance was for wimps. He’d openly laughed at Pete for buying her a dozen red roses on Valentine’s Day.

‘Yeah,’ said Leonie, getting into the swing of things. ‘We need a third musketeer.’ Poor Emma was a lovely girl and obviously in need of saving from that obnoxious man. ‘Say you know one of us already and you want to chat.’

‘They’d never swallow that,’ Emma replied.

Mr O’Brien had spotted his daughter with two women he didn’t recognize and marched over to their table, his wife in his wake like a tug boat following a liner into port.

‘I don’t have a wide circle of friends and if we pretended, my father would give you the third degree and soon work out you were lying.’

Leonie tapped her nose enigmatically. ‘I happen to be a superb actress. We’ll say we know each other through your work. What do you do, anyway?’

‘I work for KrisisKids Charity. I’m in special projects,’ Emma said.

‘That’s run by that retired politician, Edward Richards, isn’t it?’ Leonie insisted. ‘His family owns Darewood Castle and the stud farm.’

Emma was pleased that Leonie knew enough about the charity to know who ran the organization. It meant their public relations company were doing their job. But she couldn’t see how Edward fitted into this particular evening’s equation.

‘I’m a vet nurse,’ Leonie added. ‘Our practice used to be their vets. Very posh, I believe,’ Leonie said.

‘Hello there,’ boomed Mr O’Brien, sizing up the seating arrangements and noticing with displeasure that there was only room for three chairs at the small table.

Emma immediately got up, smiled a nervous goodbye to the girls and led her parents to another table.

‘Aren’t you going to introduce us to your friends?’ her mother asked peevishly.

‘I thought you wanted to sit down, Mum,’ Emma said, not wanting to ruin her new friendship by making Hannah and Leonie meet her father. Grumpy after the flight, lord only knew what he’d come out with. ‘You can meet them later. Will I order you a mineral water?’

Her mother immediately started fanning herself with her hand and looked faint. ‘Yes, it’s so hot, that would be lovely.’

‘Sit down, Emma, and stop fussing,’ ordered her father brusquely. ‘The waiter will come – eventually. These Egyptians don’t seem keen to work. At home, you’d have a drink in your hand within a minute of arriving at the bar, but here…oh no, it’s a different kettle of fish altogether.’ He glared around at the bar where the waiter was busy serving a group of people who’d just arrived and were clamouring for cocktails. ‘No bloody concept of service,’ said Jimmy O’Brien loudly.

A few feet away, Hannah and Leonie grimaced at his rudeness. Emma cringed in her bamboo chair. This was a disaster. It didn’t matter that she was sitting in the balmy night air with the vibrant city of Luxor yards away and the treasures of the Nile waiting to be explored: she was on holiday with her father and he was going to ruin everything.

‘I’ll get the drinks,’ she announced suddenly, thinking she just had to get away before her father said something utterly offensive about the waiter.

Watching Emma practically run to the bar, her face bright pink with embarrassment, Leonie nudged Hannah: ‘Poor girl isn’t going to have much of a holiday if he carries on like that all the time. The man’s a pig and she’s mortified.’

‘I know,’ Hannah nodded. ‘But what can you do? He’s her father and she’s stuck with him.’

Leonie grinned wickedly. ‘Maybe not.’

Taking a deep breath, she rose from her seat and sailed across to the O’Briens’ table, one bracelet-bedecked hand outstretched.

‘Isn’t it a coincidence!’ Leonie trilled, shaking a surprised Jimmy O’Brien’s hand with the grace of a dowager duchess, flowing pink silk shirt rippling around madly. ‘Fancy Emma working with dear Cousin Edward in KrisisKids. Now that’s what I call a small world. I’m Leonie Delaney, from the Wicklow branch of the family.’ She took Anne-Marie’s limp hand and shook it gently, trying not to flinch at the cold-kipper sensation of the other woman’s handshake.

‘We’re the merchant banking side, rather than the political side. Daddy couldn’t have borne it if we’d gone into politics,’ Leonie added in a softer voice, as if this was some great family secret, ‘so low rent. De-lighted to meet you all.’

Hannah watched her in astonishment. One minute, Leonie had been sitting quietly; the next, she was a human dynamo, her collection of brass and enamel bracelets rattling as she twirled her curls in her fingers and pretended to be a merchant banking toff. It was a bravura performance, Oscar-winning stuff.

‘Edward Richards,’ Leonie was saying to Mrs O’Brien, determined to get the message home. ‘Dear Cousin Edward – Big Neddy is what we’ve always called him.’

Hannah nearly choked as her new friend described as ‘Big Neddy’ the elegant and aristocratic man she’d seen in the papers when he was a politician.

‘Of course,’ Leonie drawled in her recently acquired posh accent, ‘he hasn’t been to Delaney Towers for months. Daddy and Mummy do miss him.’

Realization dawned in Anne-Marie O’Brien’s face. This flamboyant woman with the unsuitable heavy make-up and that bizarre metal necklace thing was actually related to Emma’s boss, the madly rich and well-connected Mr Richards. He came from one of Ireland’s most famous political dynasties. This strange Leonie woman must be one of his cousins on his mother’s side. Well, Anne-Marie thought, arranging her face into a welcoming smile, the rich were allowed to be eccentric. Some of those computer millionaires wore nothing but jeans and desperate old T-shirts. You never knew where anyone came from any more.

And if Edward Richards’ cousin was on this cruise, then it must be one of the better ones, no matter what Anne-Marie’s suspicions had been when she’d seen the size of her cabin.

‘So pleased to meet you,’ Anne-Marie said in her breathy voice. ‘Anne-Marie and James O’Brien, of O’Brien’s Contractors, you know. Emma,’ she added, as Emma arrived with drinks and a wicked smile on her face at the sight of Leonie sitting with her parents, ‘you naughty girl, you should have introduced us to Leonie and told us who she is.’ She waggled a reproving finger at her daughter. ‘Why don’t you and your companion join us?’ Anne-Marie added.

‘We thought maybe Emma would sit with us,’ Leonie said dead-pan, ‘and leave you and your husband to enjoy a romantic evening à deux.’

Anne-Marie blinked at her, while Emma watched in a state of growing puzzlement. Her mother loved using French expressions, yet here she was staring at Leonie as if she didn’t understand à deux. How weird. Then again, this entire conversation was straight out of the X-Files anyway.

She felt bad about letting Leonie mislead her parents, but it would be blissful to have someone else to talk to on holiday. After an entire day with her father and no way of escaping him, she’d have gone off for a chat with someone in a straitjacket if they’d asked her.

‘That’s kind of you,’ said Jimmy O’Brien, who didn’t speak French but didn’t want to let on.

Emma’s mother was still staring at Leonie blankly. ‘What were we talking about again?’ she asked in a plaintive voice. There was something not quite right about her tonight, Emma felt. Something vague and distant. Her mother was never vague.

Leonie took charge. She relieved Emma of the two glasses of mineral water, put them down on the table in front of the O’Briens senior and slipped an arm through Emma’s.

‘We’ll leave you to it,’ she said sweetly.

‘What did you say to them?’ asked Emma when they were out of earshot, feeling as if she should scold a little bit.

‘I lied and said I knew your boss,’ Leonie said quickly, not wanting to get into a detailed explanation of her wicked ruse. ‘Said we wanted to chat. I mean, I know how it is with parents, they probably feel you’d be lost without them, when Hannah and I both know you’d like a bit of time out. And it gives them a chance to be on their own, second honeymoon stuff.’

Emma raised her eyebrows. Second honeymoon indeed.

CHAPTER FIVE

Leonie stood in front of the Temple of Hathor and knew why she’d come to Egypt. Blazing white heat shone down on her, lighting the dusty scene with a burning white intensity. The temple in front of her, carved by the fiercely proud Rameses II for his beloved queen Nefertari, was beautiful.

Rameses’ own temple at Abu Simbel was twice as breathtaking: towering figures of the great king himself looming over the tourists, majestic and exquisitely proportioned. To stare up at the fierce face of the great ruler made the long trip in the bus worth it. Just standing there in the desert sun, listening to the age-old sounds of hawkers trying to sell their wares and the hum of insects droning lazily overhead, Leonie felt as if she could have stepped back in time. She wondered what it must have been like to be one of the archaeologists who’d discovered the fabulous temple after it had lain buried in the desert sands for three thousand years. Or even better, she clutched her golden Egyptian cartouche pendant to her chest, imagining what it would have been like to be the Egyptian queen, Nefertari, honoured by all, beautiful, covered with priceless gold jewellery and awaiting the grand opening of the temple. Lost in her magical world of romance, Leonie felt exhilarated and dazed at the same time.

This was what people felt when they saw the Taj Mahal, she thought reverently. Stunned into silence by the physical proof of what mankind could do. For love. Like the Taj Mahal, built as the biggest love token ever, Nefertari’s temple had been built by her besotted husband because he loved his wife so much. No other Egyptian ruler had ever built such a monument, the tour guide had explained as the bus trailed slowly along the road in convoy from Aswan deep into the Nubian desert. They built temples in their own honour or richly decorated great tombs for their journey to the afterworld. But a temple dedicated to one they loved, never.

Imagine being loved so much by such a great king, Leonie thought dreamily. Imagine such a symbol of enduring love in your name…

‘Leonie, the tour’s starting. Are you coming?’

Hannah’s clear voice broke into her thoughts. Hannah and a relaxed-looking Emma were following their group towards the temple. As Leonie had discovered during the past two days on the tour, you could easily lose your group in the thousands who thronged around each Egyptian monument. She’d nearly lost them in the giant and confusing Edfu Temple and she was determined it wouldn’t happen again. Picking up her canvas bag, Leonie ran after them.

‘Wow,’ she gasped as she reached the shady spot to the left where Flora was waiting with the others, ‘it’s too hot to run.’

‘Too hot to do anything,’ Hannah agreed, pulling a strand of hair away from her damp forehead. ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to cope with an hour of this.’

‘And then the bus journey back to the boat,’ groaned one of their fellow travellers, tired after the three-and-a-half-hour bus journey into the desert.

‘It’s wonderful,’ Emma said gaily. Her pale face was flushed in the heat and her hair was tied up in a ponytail to keep it away from her face. Wearing a little blue T-shirt and cotton Bermudas in a pretty madras check, she looked about twenty, and utterly carefree, Hannah thought fondly.

For the first time during the trip, Emma felt about twenty. Her mother was suffering from stomach problems and had decided she wasn’t up to the bus journey to visit Abu Simbel. Which meant that her father had cried off too, leaving Emma to enjoy the first Jimmy and Anne-Marie-free day since she’d got to Egypt. It was such a relief, like painkillers after a nagging, three-day toothache.

Neither of the O’Briens was enjoying the trip: her mother because she was in a state of high anxiety the whole time, even more so than usual. She’d behaved very strangely the previous evening at dinner, refusing to eat anything and sitting in a world of her own for the whole meal, staring into space. The heat was getting to her, Jimmy insisted. He, who’d instigated the trip to Egypt, was now telling anyone who’d listen that it hadn’t been his idea to come and muttering darkly about how Portugal had always done them very well up to now.

To make the day even more utterly delightful, Emma’s period still hadn’t come. She was pregnant, she knew it. Every time she went near the loo, she panicked in case a tell-tale trickle of pale pink stained the white loo roll. But nothing. Bliss.

Sighing with happiness, she linked both Leonie and Hannah’s arms and led them into the temple after Flora, who was holding a royal blue Incredible Egypt clipboard above her head to make sure her busload of people could see her.

In her state of expectant happiness, Emma was one of the few people who wasn’t mildly put out when the bus broke down only half an hour after leaving the temple on the drive home. Crunching to a noisy halt on the outskirts of a dusty little town, it refused to start up despite much swearing and banging on the bus driver’s part. Buses and taxis to Abu Simbel always travelled in convoys, Flora had explained earlier, in case one broke down mid-desert. But they were unfortunately the second-last bus in the convoy back to Aswan and the only vehicle behind them was a crowded mini-bus which couldn’t take any extra passengers.

‘Don’t worry, folks, it’ll be all right,’ Flora said bravely as the mini-bus driver and their driver fiddled around with the engine and talked volubly with much irate hand-waving.

Leonie, fascinated by the exotic signs of life around them, was happy enough to sit and look out of the window, but it did begin to get hot with the bus, and therefore the air conditioning, switched off. Emma was just happy full stop. Nothing could touch the blissful happiness inside her.

They’d get back eventually and she was quite content to sit there, one hand gently on her belly. Small, dark-eyed children waved up at the tourists on the bus and Emma beamed down at them, waving back. Soon she’d have her own darling child. Would it take after Pete or her? She’d prefer a dark-eyed baby, she decided. The vision of a dark-eyed baby in cute denim dungarees lulled her into a contented fantasy.

As well prepared as ever, Hannah had an extra bottle of water in her small backpack and she shared it between the three of them. Emma had boiled sweets, which filled the gap in Leonie’s stomach.

‘I’m getting used to three massive meals a day on the boat,’ she said ruefully. ‘I’m ravenous.’

‘Me too,’ Emma said. ‘But don’t worry, they’ll fix the bus,’ she added confidently.

‘I doubt it.’ Hannah wasn’t as confident. She hated disruptions to her routine. The bus was supposed to be back in Aswan at seven thirty in time for dinner at eight. They’d been stopped for at least, she checked her watch, twenty minutes, which meant they’d be late. Shit. She hated being late, hated disorder in her very ordered life. She could feel her pulse increase as the tension got to her. Beads of perspiration that had nothing to do with the heat broke out on her skin. Her nerve ends tingled in that familiar, agitated way. Calm down, Hannah, she commanded herself. If you’re late, so what? There’s nothing you can do about it and everyone else will be late too. It had been ages since she’d had a panic attack, she couldn’t be getting one now.

Flora clambered up the steps into the bus. ‘We’ll all have to get off, I’m afraid,’ she said, still looking calm in the face of mutinous passengers. ‘I’ve phoned the bus company and they’ll have another bus here in an hour and a half. I know it’s a long time, but it’s coming from Wadi al-Sabu which is half-way between here and Aswan. Hassan says there’s a lovely little restaurant in the town and I’ll buy us all dinner there as we’re going to be late back to the boat.’

A rush of angry mutterings greeted her words from the front of the bus, while the people at the back seemed more resigned to the news.

‘I’m starving,’ Leonie said. ‘Let’s find this place quickly.’ She looked around and realized that Hannah looked strangely put out. Which was unusual because Hannah was always so relaxed, so sure of herself. Hannah never appeared to worry about what to wear, what to eat or what people thought of her. Now she looked as taut as a tug-of-war rope at the news that they’d be delayed by a few hours.

Leonie wasn’t sure what to say to calm Hannah down but Emma said it for her, Emma, who was used to people getting anxious over delays.

‘There’s nothing we can do, Hannah,’ Emma said in firm tones they’d never heard her use before. ‘We’re stuck, we may as well make the best of it. We’ll be home eventually, so let’s not panic. Food will do us good.’

‘I know,’ Hannah agreed, taking as deep a breath as she could. ‘I hate delays, I’m so impatient. Hanging around for any length of time stresses me out.’ She followed Emma obediently off the bus while Leonie went last, forever amazed at people and the chameleon changes they could make. It was a mystery to her that quiet, nervous little Emma could suddenly become the cool, calm one, while Hannah became a wreck. Talk about role reversal.

As the group straggled up the town, people watched them; adorable dark-eyed children giggled and pointed at the foreigners, laughing at Emma’s bare legs and her pale skin. Proud-faced men in Arab dress looked darkly at Leonie, resplendent in flowing white silk, her golden hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders, her mouth a vivid crimson slash. With her golden cartouche and several strings of vibrant beads she’d bought locally wound around her neck, she looked utterly exotic in this dusty desert town where the dominant colour was beige.

‘Your husband is lucky fellow,’ smiled one local man admiringly before proffering some postcards of Abu Simbel.

Leonie tried not to grin but she couldn’t stop the corners of her mouth turning up slightly. For once, she was the one getting all the attention. ‘Thank you but no thank you,’ she said primly and grabbed Emma’s arm the way the guide book had warned single women should do to avoid harassment.

‘I won’t let anyone run away with you,’ teased Emma, watching the men watching Leonie. ‘You’re the big hit around here, and no mistake.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Leonie said, immeasurably flattered and trying not to show it. ‘I’m a mother of three who wears support tights, hardly a siren.’ But she couldn’t help feeling a little bit siren-ish. People – well, men – were looking at her. Not at Hannah with her cool elegance or at Emma with the milky-white skin and long, coltish grace.

It was the same in the restaurant: a large cool place with rough bench seating and faded cushions, it was staffed by three waiters who were obviously delighted to see a flamboyantly blonde, female tourist.

Flora, with her clipboard and mobile phone, was ignored as the men stared at Leonie appreciatively, treating her like a movie star.

‘Pretend you’re Madonna,’ suggested Hannah, her mood improving. It was ridiculous to get uptight because the bus had broken down. She really must learn to snap out of these moods.

Emma started singing ‘Like a Virgin’ as the three of them were escorted to their table, a large one in a spacious corner with much softer, more opulent-looking cushions than the rest and an elaborate candelabra.

Leonie, who couldn’t sing to save her life, joined in tunelessly, her voice wavering on the long drawn-out notes. She stopped long enough for the oldest waiter to usher her to the best seat, bowing formally as he did so. She bestowed a gracious smile on him and gave him a blast of sapphire eyes. He bowed even lower and hurried off, to return with three fragile painted glasses for them.