Someone Like You

But it was changed now. Emma never bought strawberries or chocolate buttons for sexy games in bed; she hadn’t purchased any Body Shop massage oil in months. All sex had become trying-for-a-baby sex. Pete didn’t appear to notice this change. He still enjoyed himself and did his best to make Emma enjoy herself too. But he didn’t know that the passionate moments which used to give her so much pleasure no longer transported her into a world of erotic bliss.

Instead, she was willing each sperm to swim wildly up her cervix, to breach the tiny opening and emerge like a brave warrior into the fallopian tubes in search of her all-precious eggs. While Pete was groaning in sexual frenzy, Emma was on an incredible journey, like a documentary camera filming groundbreaking footage inside a woman’s uterus, watching the miracle of conception. Sexual pleasure came a poor second to the thrill of conception in Emma’s book.

And The Joy of Sex no longer gave her the thrill that Annabel Karmel’s toddler babyfoods book did. Hidden at the back of her wardrobe, her nest of baby books gave her solace and comfort. Like the few shameful baby things she’d bought on one trip to Mothercare. She’d felt so guilty even going in there, as if she had the word ‘impostor’ tattooed on her forehead. People would know she wasn’t a mother; only experienced women could tell which sort of bootees you should buy for a newborn. She’d planned to say she was buying a present for a friend if any nosy shop assistant noticed her inexperienced fingering of tiny garments. But nobody had come near her, so she’d borne away the small pink velour dress with pride. You couldn’t buy baby clothes and not need them, could you? God wouldn’t do that to a person. She would need them, of course she would. Maybe not yet but someday, soon.

On Sunday morning, she rang Leonie to say hello. She didn’t know why she had this compulsion to talk to Leonie, but she did. There was something comforting about Leonie, and there was the added bonus that she and Hannah knew how Emma felt deep-down about her desire for a child. There was no need to bullshit with people who knew your heart’s desires.

‘Emma!’ Leonie said, sounding delighted to hear from her. ‘How are you, my love?’

Emma gasped and let out a little sob. ‘Terrible, Leonie. That’s why I’m ringing you. I’m a mess, I’m sorry, I’ll go…’

Leonie interrupted her: ‘Don’t you dare hang up, you mad thing. It’s always depressing to come home and discover everything is exactly the same as it was before. You half expect that the world will have caught up with your renewed sense of purpose and, of course, it hasn’t. Is it the baby?’ she asked softly.

‘Yes.’

‘What are you doing today?’

Emma shook her head and then, realizing Leonie couldn’t see her, said: ‘I don’t know. Nothing really. We’ll probably go to the cinema tonight and I should spend today sorting out the house and the washing.’

‘So you and Pete have nothing planned? Well, will he mind if I steal you away for an hour?’

‘No.’

‘That’s a deal, then,’ Leonie said firmly. ‘I’ll phone Hannah and see if she’s free. I’ll hop in the car and be with you in an hour, OK?’

‘OK,’ Emma said tremulously.

‘Wait a moment and I’ll phone you back.’

Hannah didn’t answer the phone until the fifth ring. ‘I was vacuuming,’ she explained to Leonie. ‘I’ve been up since eight and, as the place was a disaster, I’ve cleaned everything, done the kitchen cupboards and most of the hand washing.’

Leonie grinned. ‘Will you come and do my house next?’ she joked. ‘All I’ve done this morning is walk Penny and toy with the idea of unpacking my suitcase. I’m phoning because Emma rang and she sounds very down. I suggested meeting in an hour for a quick coffee. Are you game?’

‘Yes, you can come here,’ Hannah suggested. ‘The place is clean now.’

‘As in, it was a tip in the first place?’ teased Leonie.

‘Well, it was a bit…’ started Hannah until she realized she was being neurotically houseproud and Leonie was teasing her. ‘Bitch. You bring the biscuits and I’ll have the coffee perking, right?’

Leonie got directions, then phoned Emma with them and arranged to meet in an hour.

‘Pete, love, I’m just popping out for a few hours,’ Emma called to her husband who was engrossed in the Sunday papers in the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a book of Leonie’s and I have to give it back to her, so we’re meeting for a coffee.’ She didn’t want to say she was meeting the girls because she needed the moral support they provided her with. It seemed traitorous to seek comfort from them instead of from Pete, but she couldn’t tell him how she felt. Not yet.

Hannah’s flat was just like her: perfectly elegant with not a caramel velvet cushion out of place. After hugging each other delightedly, Emma and Leonie prowled around the small living room, admiring the modern fireplace with the fat cream candles in their cast-iron holders and the arrangement of cacti in a gravel-filled pot on the small glass-topped coffee table. Everything was airy and contemporary, from the muslin curtains draped over a cast-iron pole to the oatmeal throws Hannah had arranged carefully over her two elderly armchairs. Beautiful black-and-white photos of city streets hung in silver frames on the cream wall, but there were no family photos, no pictures of a smiling Hannah with other members of her family, Leonie noticed. It was as if she’d divorced herself from her past and used arty photos from other people’s lives to hide the fact.

‘I’m so sorry about the coffee,’ Hannah apologized for about the fifth time, as she came into the room with three fat yellow ceramic cups on big saucers. She’d been horrified when she went to make the coffee to discover that she only had instant. She loved it, but it wasn’t polite to serve instant, was it? She hated feeling insecure about things like that. At home, they’d only ever drunk tea and their guests had never been what you’d describe as polite society. It was when she was entertaining that Hannah really felt her lack of understanding for things like how to hold a fork or how to introduce people to each other. She longed to be blasé about these matters, longed to know instinctively instead of always carefully watching other people for hints.

‘Stop fussing about the coffee,’ Leonie said, waving a hand at her. ‘Far from percolated coffee we were all reared. We never have real coffee at home or I’d be permanently broke. Danny loves it and uses up a pound in a week.’

‘Instant is perfect,’ Emma added. ‘Your flat is so pretty. You really know how to create a lovely atmosphere. I’d never know how to make those muslin curtains drape.’

‘Penny would have them dragged off the pole in a week because she loves going in behind the curtains to sulk,’ Leonie said with a laugh. ‘That’s probably where she is right now, actually, sulking with me. She was thrilled when I got home last night but she wouldn’t let me out of her sight all morning, convinced I was going to leave her. She howled when she saw me putting on my good coat.’

‘How’s poor Clover?’ asked Hannah. ‘Traumatized from the cattery?’

Leonie nodded guiltily. ‘As soon as I got her home, she shot into Danny’s room and hasn’t come out since. She’s probably under the duvet, shivering and covering it with cat hairs. Herman is fine, though. Mum’s cats didn’t manage to terrorize him for once. In fact, if anything, he’s got fat.’

Emma laughed. ‘I think Pete must have been eating the same as Herman,’ she said. ‘He survived on chips and pizza all week and I swear he’s put on a few pounds. We were all teasing him about it in the pub.’ Her face darkened. ‘That’s why I was such an idiot on the phone to you earlier,’ she said to Leonie. ‘Not because of Pete, but…’ she sighed. ‘We were in the pub with our friends Mike and Janine, and she began to tell me about Mike’s sister who’s had a baby and, I don’t know, I went to pieces. It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Mention the word “baby” and I become this blubbering fool.’

She took a scalding sip of coffee. It seemed normal to talk about it here. At home, she’d felt as if she was on the verge of a breakdown and wondered if Pete or anyone else would think her unhinged if she said how miserable she felt. But Hannah and Leonie thought it was perfectly natural to talk about your feelings. They seemed to understand how easy it was to have your emotions upended by something.

‘Of course it’s not ridiculous,’ Hannah said kindly. ‘I’m like that with Harry. One minute, I’m on top of the world and the next, I see someone walking down the street wearing a jacket like his and I get so freaked out that I don’t know if I’m furious or miserable. I start having fantasies about what I’d say to him if I ever saw him again and what sort of garden pruning device I’d use on him…’

Emma giggled. ‘I have baby fantasies,’ she admitted. ‘I’m in the car and I imagine what it must be like to be driving around with the baby in the back, talking to her and telling her what we’re going to do. You know, “Mummy’s bringing you to the shops to buy you some lovely new clothes and then we’re going to the park for a big walk to look at the ducks.”‘ She’d never told anyone that before. It was too private.

Leonie patted her arm. ‘You can tell us anything, Em,’ she said simply, as if she’d known what Emma was thinking. ‘That’s what friends are for. Maybe because we’re new friends and don’t have all sorts of histories with each other, we can accept each other for what we really are.’

Emma nodded. ‘I know. It’s great, isn’t it?’

The hour stretched to an hour and a half. More coffee was needed and Emma insisted she make it. ‘If we’re going to be proper friends, then you can’t be waiting on us like a couple of guests,’ she told Hannah. ‘My God,’ she said moments later. ‘Your kitchen is spotless. Are you sure you aren’t related to my mother? She’d adore you.’

Hannah stuck on a Harry Connick Jnr CD and they all listened to his mellow voice as they went through the rest of the croissants Leonie had brought.

‘He’s a fine thing, Harry,’ Emma said as Harry sang ‘It Had To Be You’ in his own special way.

‘Yeah, but his name ruins it,’ laughed Hannah. ‘Anyway, I’ve gone off dark men. My Harry was dark-haired, so I think I’ll go for blonds from now on.’

‘Ooh, like who?’ asked Leonie. ‘Describe him to us, your fantasy man.’

Sitting on an armchair, Hannah hugged her knees to her chest and contemplated him: ‘Tall, because I like wearing high heels and I hate men who are smaller than me. Muscular, definitely, and with blue eyes, like yours, Leonie; piercing blue to gaze into my soul. Strong bones and wonderful hands for touching me all over. And golden, honeyed skin and hair to match.’

‘That’s Robert Redford you’re talking about,’ Leonie warned, ‘and he’s mine. If he turns up on your doorstep, you are not to lay a hand on him. Or our friendship will be over.’

‘You have to think of your own fantasy man,’ objected Hannah. ‘You can’t just duplicate mine.’

‘OK, OK.’ Leonie loved this game. She played it all the time herself, picturing the man who’d rescue her from singledom. ‘Sorry, Hannah, I’m not copying you, but he has to be tall and strong, really. Otherwise he’ll never be able to carry me over the threshold without rupturing some vital bit. And,’ she giggled, ‘he’ll need all his vital bits in perfect working order. Let’s see…He’s got to be over forty and I think I fancy dark men, definitely, but he can have greying temples. That’s very sexy, distinguished. You can see yourself running your fingers through the grey bits…’

‘You can’t have sex with him until you’ve finished describing him,’ teased Hannah.

‘Dark eyes and a Kirk Douglas chin.’

‘What’s that?’ Emma asked, puzzled.

‘With a dent in it,’ Leonie answered. ‘I used to watch all those old movies when I was a kid and I fancied Kirk something rotten. There was one pirate movie he was in and I dreamed about being the girl in it for months. Oh yes, he has to be filthy rich and love children, animals and women who never stick to their diet. Your turn, Em.’

Emma smiled shyly. ‘I know you’ll think I’m daft, but Pete is my fantasy man. He’s not terribly tall and he’s not muscular, although he’s fit. He’s going bald but I adore him. He’s it’.

Hannah and Leonie smiled at her affectionately. ‘That’s wonderful,’ Hannah said.

‘True love,’ Leonie added. ‘You are lucky, you know.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Hannah had been having a wonderful day until she met the postman when she was on her way back to her front door that evening. He didn’t say anything rude or jokingly ask her if she’d joined a convent in her stark grey jacket, long matching skirt, and white shirt, which he’d said one day he met her as she was coming back from a job interview. No, he simply shoved a bunch of letters into the letterbox of the open front door, and the rest of the evening was kaput. Hannah bent to pick them up and realized that two were for her, one in Harry’s writing.

His familiar sloping scrawl was instantly recognizable. He never could do joined up writing, they used to joke. Well ha, bloody, ha! she snarled now. It wasn’t cute or even amusing. It was plain stupid. Imagine a thirty-six-year-old man who couldn’t write properly. She dumped the rest of the letters on the hall table for the other residents and rushed in, shaking her hair to get rid of the light drizzle that had appeared from nowhere. Up till then, it had been a great day.

Her first day working in Dwyer, Dwyer & James estate agent’s and she’d arrived early. Parking the car in a space opposite the branch, she sat there for a few moments and began to breathe deeply. She filled her lungs with air, held it and then exhaled slowly. It was a wonderful way of preparing yourself for the day, she found. Somebody tapped on her window and Hannah leapt in her seat. The window was misted up so she instinctively rubbed it to see who was looking in. A strange woman was smiling in at her. Harmless looking, Hannah felt, noticing the good raincoat, pleasant middle-aged face and pearl necklace above a pink pussy-cat bow blouse, but still strange. She rolled down the window.

‘Yes?’

‘You must be Hannah. I’m Gillian from Dwyer, Dwyer & James. I spotted you from the newsagent’s and thought you were wondering if you should park there or not. But you can.’

‘That’s kind of you,’ Hannah answered politely, getting out of the car and thinking that not a lot must happen in Dun Laoghaire if people spent their time peering out of the newsagent’s window looking out for the new employees.

‘You looked lost in thought…’ said the woman helpfully.

‘Just wondering where to park,’ Hannah lied blithely. She wasn’t about to tell this person that she never lost a moment’s sleep about parking and was sitting there because she was nervous about this new job and needed time to put on her cool, calm façade. Letting people know about your personal life was only asking for trouble, she’d decided. How could she operate as the cool and collected Ms Campbell if the staff knew how she had to calm herself down with yoga breathing? She couldn’t, that was the simple answer.

Two hours later, Hannah knew that Gillian had been on reception for years and worked part-time for the senior Mr Dwyer, a kindly faced man who could be seen through his glass-fronted office reading a huge batch of morning papers and getting Gillian to say he wasn’t in to phone callers.

‘The reception is so busy that I’d prefer to do just one job, looking after Mr Dwyer,’ Gillian whispered, as if Mr Dwyer required a lot of looking after.

Hannah also knew that the ladies’ toilet had an extractor fan problem (recounted in a whisper by Gillian), that the young Steve Shaw would try and chat her up as soon as he saw her even though he was only back from his honeymoon, and that Donna Nelson, the firm’s newest senior agent, was a single mother, ‘although she seems like a nice enough girl,’ Gillian sniffed, as if single motherdom and niceness were mutually exclusive. Hannah said nothing.

Gillian herself had back problems: ‘My chiropractor says I shouldn’t work, but what would I do with myself at home?’ she tittered. Hannah forbore to suggest, ‘Contribute to a gossip column?’ She was married to Leonard, had one son, a deeply unsuitable daughter-in-law, and a budgie named Clementine, who was a boy.

Hannah, who was supposed to be learning the intricacies of the firm’s reception with Gillian as her guide, would have preferred to hear more about dealing with clients and which agents dealt with which areas, and less about how clever Clementine was and what he could do with his mirror. It was soon clear that Gillian, having given so much of herself, was now looking for payback from Hannah in the form of her life story.

Hannah hadn’t divulged one bit of personal information all morning, despite Gillian’s avalanche of intimate chat. Neither had Hannah mentioned that her job was actually going to be that of office manager but that she’d been asked to start on reception as a way of learning more about the firm. One of her first jobs as office manager would be to train the new receptionist starting the following week. Judging by how Gillian appeared to enjoy her lofty position as Mr Dwyer’s assistant, she wouldn’t be pleased to find Hannah was actually her senior in the company structure. She’d find out soon enough.

‘Are you married?’ Gillian asked, pale eyes twinkling in her rosy face, discreet pearl earrings catching the light. She was a monster, Hannah decided. A monster who traded in stories of human misery and who needed Hannah’s story to add to her collection of scalps.

‘Or engaged…?’

Hannah hadn’t grown up in a remote western town where disapproving gossip was the lifeblood of half the residents for nothing.

‘Neither,’ she said bluntly. Then she gazed coolly at Gillian, holding the other woman’s eyes for at least thirty seconds until Gillian looked away uncomfortably.

She’d got the message, Hannah decided.

‘I’ll make us some tea,’ Hannah said warmly. It was vital not to upset Gillian, after all. Just to let her see that Hannah would not be revealing any delicate personal details for the office bulletin board.

It was nearly lunchtime before David James, who had interviewed Hannah in the firm’s city-centre office for the job, arrived. ‘He’s been busy with the Dawson Street office but he still drops in here from time to time,’ Gillian revealed, searching for her frosted pink lipstick when Mr James’s Jag pulled up outside the door.

He doesn’t drop in often enough, Hannah felt, looking around the rather run-down premises which was a total contrast to the stylish Dawson Street branch. There, the minimalist look ruled with architect-designed furniture, modern prints on the walls and an air of discreet wealth simmered gently in the background.

The Dun Laoghaire branch of Dwyer, Dwyer & James looked like somebody’s idea of an elegant office circa 1970. The walls were coffee-coloured, the seats for clients were the sort of low squashy things fashionable when Charlie’s Angels were famous the first time, and big brown felt screens divided up the private bits of the office from the public bits. The address was prestigious but the office was a shambles.

In between Gillian’s monologues, Hannah had been wondering whether she’d made a huge and hideous mistake in giving up her nice job for this place. Dwyer, Dwyer & James were a big, powerful firm and she’d felt it was a step upwards to work for them as office manager. But this branch was like the office that time forgot.

David James, tall, strongly built and with the sort of commanding presence that reduced the place to silence, walked in, shook hands with Hannah, said he hoped she was settling in and asked to see her in the back office. He threw a raincoat on to the back of a chair and pulled off his suit jacket to reveal muscular shoulders straining under a French blue shirt. He was quite handsome really, she realized. She hadn’t noticed it at her interview; she’d been too nervous. But there was something attractive about that broad, strong-boned face and the sleek salt-and-pepper hair. He was probably in his early forties, although the lines around his narrow eyes made him appear slightly older. Immaculate in his expensive clothes, he somehow looked as if he’d be just as at home wielding an axe to chop wood in the wilderness as wielding a Mont Blanc pen in a swish office. He certainly had the colour of someone who liked outdoor pursuits. Not a man to mess with.

‘Have you spoken to my partner, Andrew Dwyer, yet?’ he asked, settling himself into a big chair, not looking at her as his eyes raked over the papers on the desk that required his attention.

‘No. Gillian has been filling me in,’ Hannah said.

A flash of brief understanding passed between them, David’s dark eyes glinting.

‘Ah, Gillian, yes,’ he murmured. ‘It’s not really suitable for Gillian to be doing two jobs. That’s why I’ve hired you. I’m sure you’re wondering what you’ve done, coming from the Triumph Hotel to this place.’

That’s exactly what Hannah had been thinking but she was too clever to show it. She kept her face carefully blank.

‘This was our first premises and it’s ten years since I left,’ he said.

Hannah was surprised. Listening to Gillian, you’d have thought Mr James had been gone from Dun Laoghaire for a mere six months.

‘My nephew Michael set up the Howth office eight years ago and he was due to come back here to take over but personal reasons prevented him doing it. I didn’t have the time to sort this place out. Things have gone downhill here recently since the other Mr Dwyer died. There’ll be a lot of changes and I thought we needed a good manager for the place. I need someone who can get on with the existing staff and be able to work with any new ones. That’s why I hired you. I know you’re a hard worker and I like your style, Hannah.

‘We never had an office manager before. Gillian ran the office when it was a small concern, but we’ve barely been ticking over for a long time. We need a proper office manager, someone who can keep us running smoothly, getting auction brochures printed, etc. From the point of view of security, we need someone who is always aware of where the agents are. When you have people on their own showing houses, you have to be security conscious. I want the female agents to be contacted every hour to make sure they’re safe. I’m very confident that you can do it.’

‘Thanks,’ she said briskly.

‘Now, if Donna Nelson’s back, perhaps you could send her in. I need to have a talk with her.’

Hannah was glad she was working directly with David James. Direct and blunt, he clearly didn’t waste any time on chatting. He was just the sort of person Hannah enjoyed working for. With someone like him, there’d be no need for extraneous conversations about the state of the weather or how strong the office coffee was.

Gillian was dying to know how she’d got on.

‘Isn’t Mr James a pet,’ she sighed. ‘His marriage broke up and he’s never really got over it. I mean, he went out with a few women, but nothing worked out. I think he’s lonely, don’t you sense it too?’

What Hannah sensed was that Gillian would have given poor hubbie Leonard and the talented Clementine the push if she could have comforted Mr James in a very unplatonic way.

By close of business, she’d met all the firm’s agents and had liked Donna Nelson best of all. A rather chic woman with a dark bob, navy suit and an efficient air, she was obviously very wary of Gillian and had greeted Hannah with a guarded smile that said, She’s been telling you all about me, hasn’t she?

Hannah responded with her warmest smile and said pleasantly: ‘Perhaps we could have a chat during the week and you can tell me how you’d like your calls handled.’

‘That would be great,’ Donna said, looking pleased. Probably sick and tired of Gillian’s sharp manner with clients, she was relieved to find someone who knew how to answer a phone without cutting the nose off someone.

Business didn’t appear to be brisk, but Gillian’s put-on phone voice, as frosty as her lipstick, wouldn’t have enticed cold callers to put their homes for sale through Dwyers.