The Bitch-Proof Suit

     
 

      

      

     It had been raining during the night in Manhattan and the hot, early morning sunlight glinted off the streets, bathing the city in a brand new glow. The air was fresh with the scent of potential. That’s what I was hoping for too — a fresh start, a chance to work on the other side of the world for a few months, and I was going after it, no holds barred. This was my big chance to work in Dublin, and I had a few reasons for wanting to go back to the Irish city, including one who was tall, dark and heartbreakingly luscious.

     I hurried along the busy street at eight in the morning. I was running a fraction late, but I was armed to the teeth with everything I needed to succeed including one thing in particular — my bitch–proof suit. In the world of fashion marketing, I was about to put my suit to the ultimate test when I vied against a boardroom full of killer heeled, conniving business bitches to win the top job assignment — to head the coolhunting department in the company’s new office in Dublin, and settle a few scores at the same time.

     I’ve worked in fashion marketing for years. I’m known as a coolhunter or futurehunter — someone who susses out what’s going to be the next big thing. Call it a faze, call it a fad, I call it being able to see the potential in something new that people will like. In my case it’s fashion. But back to the suit . . .

     My marketing experience helped me create the perfect suit. A lot of work had gone into honing the precise look, the design, the exact tone of charcoal gray for the jacket and skirt, teamed with an arctic white blouse that made the most of my blonde hair, which was styled to a mid nape length and gave just the right balance of fierce gorgeousness. It was a suit by no specific designer. I preferred to use bespoke tailors and have my clothes made with twice the precision at half the price. No labels, no trends, just sheer cutting edge class. I was never model material (unless prettyish, medium height, slender but shapely blondes ever became fashionable on the designer runways), but the suit upgraded what I had to work with.

     You could cut through glass with the sharpness of the jacket. It was a classic, two button, single breasted design that could be dressed up or down for day or evening. The stitching and finish, from the length of the sleeves to the specific shoulder styling, was perfection personified. The suit skimmed the figure fluidly, rather than hugged it tight, and created a shield that deflected and defended the wearer from incoming insults. What was there to snipe about? Surely not the longer line jacket that flattered every ass from all angles, or the smooth lapels that emphasized the female form without brazenly shoving it in your face. The hem of the perfectly cut, A–line skirt sliced just below the knee with no trace of hemming, and of course, on the derriere there was no hint of visible panty line. We shouldn’t even be thinking about VPL at this level. It just doesn’t happen.

     The anonymity of the suit and accessories was paramount. No specific designer was crucial. And I chose my shoes carefully. My shoes have great heels. I could run the length of Brooklyn Bridge in them and back at a pace that would make grown men crumble. Imagine court shoes of the third millennium. Futuristic, functional and fabulous. Beat that you bitches.

     Several of us were vying for the prime opportunity to work in Dublin’s design metropolis. Mega bucks, prestige and the power to influence the core of the fashion industry were at stake. So, as you can imagine, no one was going to take the challenge lightly.

     The unspeakably glamorous and influential Verde Valmont (pronounced Verdi), had already set the wheels in motion. As one of the New York directors, she’d flown over to Dublin with her assistant, Emer, to secure the ideal offices and start scouting for potential trendsetting designers. Verde was known to her friends as Vee–Vee, so you didn’t hear that name very often.

     If I got the job, I’d be working with Verde, the epitome of a prize bitch, who gave a whole new meaning to the phrase, fiercely ambitious — seriously. When she’d been refused the backing of the company’s board of directors for one of her projects, she threatened to jump out of the window of the boardroom unless they relented and gave her exactly what she asked for. They’d still refused. Big mistake — on their part . . .

     I was there at the meeting that day, and had I not witnessed it for myself, I’d never have believed it. Verde, seething with rage, called their bluff. Taking everyone by surprise, she jumped from the fourth storey office window, but with it being spring, all the ad banners and canopies were out, and when she jumped, to spite them I may add, the canopies broke her fall and she landed with an undignified thud on the sidewalk below, and then got up and came back in with nothing more than a broken wrist. Whether she knew the banners would break her fall, we’ll never know, but the boardroom backed down and she got what she wanted. That was over a year ago, and by all accounts her wrist still cracked whenever she wrote a check. She wore expensive bracelets and bangles to disguise the slightly wonky wrist bone. They rattled whenever she moved and always reminded me of the ticking croc in Peter Pan.

     Taking a few deep breaths of fresh air, I headed into the building. In the elevator I guessed who would be there. Company bigwig, Randolph, would be chairing the meeting, as always. Anyone who abbreviated his name to Randy immediately highlighted themselves as an outsider. He had about as much sex appeal as a concrete lamppost, and was just as gray, inflexible and toweringly tall as one. The only surprising thing about Randolph was his age. He was sixty, but he’d been a silver fox for over thirty years. Those who worked for his company were accustomed to his distinguished persona. He was rather like a statue that stands in pride of place for decades and never changes. Everyone thought he’d still be chairing meetings ad infinitum.

     One of the main contenders for the job, and my official Manhattan based nemesis, Marina DeMar, would be throwing down the gauntlet for sure. Marina recently swore she had Irish blood in her veins from her great, great, great grandmother’s side of the family and therefore she should go to Dublin. Go figure. It was a blatant lie of course. Last season she’d been of French Canadian descent. I seriously doubted Marina had any blood in her. She was frighteningly pale, wafer thin, and when the air conditioning was at its coldest, her blue veins looked like a road map. Okay, so she was an ex–model, but she still looked like death warmed up.

     Then there was Azuree. Like the other harpies drenched in cookie cutter fashions, Azuree had a degree in superficiality, her only qualification for the job. The last time we’d gone after the same assignment, she’d won, and had stuck a diamond spangled finger up at me as she left the meeting and headed for Milan. I swear if you looked beneath the designer clothes that draped her fabulous figure, you’d find a ninety percent silicone label on her somewhere.

     Not that I’m against giving nature a helping hand, but it’s just not for me. And in a room with polished wood floors and nothing but original artwork and first edition books, it seemed I was the only one to get the irony of the plastic asses seated on the antique chairs.

     Around fifteen faces that looked like they wanted to rip my throat out, verbally or otherwise, were waiting in the executive floor office. The sun threatened to burn a hole through the large expanse of glass, but it probably knew better. The temperature was warm, but the atmosphere was cold as steel.

     Marina DeMar was glaring daggers at me. Her eyes were telling me I was late. My eyes were warning her to think twice about opening her plum lipstick mouth to even hint at it. The moment passed. I walked the length of the boardroom. Silence. Not one word, just vibes that were so strong you could’ve signaled by satellite on the seething energy. Another day in the life of an independent bitch slayer. By the way, my name’s Blue (Bluebell) Byrne. Welcome to my world.

      

      

      

      

      

     
 

     ‘Hi, Bluebell,’ she said, with all the false brightness of a fake diamond. ‘Can I give you a brief personal message from Dublin . . .?’

     I steeled myself for the flack. Whenever Verde called me Bluebell, it signaled an incoming dose of verbal vitriol. But I was feeling good. Give it your best shot I thought to myself. Unfortunately, her first strike was well below the belt. It hit me like a sucker punch.

     ‘Morgan says hi,’ she said, in her usual honeyed, husky tone, without letting her smile falter. Ventriloquists had nothing on Verde. ‘We had dinner again together last night and he sends his, eh . . . his regards.’

     Yeah, right. Like hell he did. Men like Morgan Daire should come with a warning. Beware. This man will rip your heart out and feed it to the vultures if you’re ever stupid enough to fall for his Irish charm, dimpled smile, sparkling eyes the color of green absinthe and silky dark hair that makes him look like a roguish pirate rather than one of the top movers and shakers in Dublin. Six years ago I’d made that mistake, believing he was the one. I’d spent a year working in Dublin, building contacts, making progress in my career, and I’d stupidly let my guard down and invited him into my life. The biggest mistake I’d ever made.

     Morgan was sharp. A Machiavellian bastard to the core. He’d argued that I’d judged him too harshly, that I couldn’t see the real man behind the scathing facade. It was business, it wasn’t personal, he’d said. If there’s one phrase that makes me want to spit fire it’s that one. How if it involves me is it not personal?

     He’d had the audacity to say he was actually being kind and that there was no place for me in Dublin or a future for us. He’d effectively jumped on me from a great height, crushing my career aspirations, hopes and dreams in one fell swoop. If that was him being kind, I was in for one hell of a fight when I went back to confront him, to continue where I’d left off, to challenge him on his home turf.

     He’d raged at me the night I finally found the courage to pack my bags and leave him, and Dublin, behind. ‘You’re nothing but a marketing mercenary, Blue,’ he’d shouted as I ran across the Ha’penny Bridge over the city’s River Liffey. ‘Go on, run home to New York where you belong.’

     And so I did. I threw my mobile phone into the Liffey, got in my hire car and drove to the airport. It had been a harsh goodbye.

     Anyway . . .

     I smiled calmly at Verde, as if taking the message at face value. Had she scored a point? She wasn’t sure, and that was enough for me. I decided to chalk it up to yet another bad experience of being within ten feet of her, even if she was only on a computer monitor. And if anything, it made me a hundred times more determined to get this job, so in the oddest way, she’d done me a favor.

     Indecision is something that really bugs Verde. I could see her flicking her blunt cut, glossy auburn hair in mild annoyance. After a few minutes of Randolph’s introduction to the meeting, Verde had another run at me, just to be sure she’d put the knife in deep enough. I bet she wondered if I’d found someone else. Maybe Morgan Daire was indeed history and I didn’t give a damn about him. Of course, this wasn’t true. The hurt had mellowed, but it still bothered me when I thought about him, and how things could have been.

     ‘You’re looking . . .’ Verde began, and then she couldn’t find anything snide to say about my appearance. The bitch–proof suit was working. She didn’t know what to pick on. Okay, so she could have said I looked tired (which I didn’t, but that usually deflates most women’s confidence), in need of a facial (ditto), or anything else, but when I wear this suit, it seems to disconcert those who’d like to undermine me. And the beauty of it is, they can’t quite pinpoint why — the whole thing is subliminal. All that happens is that they get a feeling of not being able to dish out their usual spiteful comments. It has that effect. You see, no one knows this suit is designed to fight off bitchy attacks and protect the wearer from venomous remarks. It works ninety percent of the time, which is a huge bonus as far as I’m concerned. Anything to help water down the verbal poison gets my vote.

     I’d never told anyone here about my suit. It was my secret. If I even hinted to Verde about its design, I could risk ruining its effectiveness. And I’d never do that. In fact, I have variations on its theme. You can’t possibly wear the same look all the time. It’s not a uniform. So I’ve also got a basic black and a classic plaid — and even a red hot scarlet version for specific occasions. However, I have to say, the gray ensemble is the ultimate bitch–proof suit, and I really needed it for the meeting.

     Verde’s voice sliced through the air. ‘We all know why we’re here. Fashion is in a rut. Our clients are relying on us to find out where the industry’s future lies. We’ve got to go beyond our usual coolhunting territory and scan the globe for the next big thing.’

     I started to tune out. It was like listening to the commercials before watching a movie. I wished she’d just cut to the chase. We always heard the same old blurb about how the company was built on being one step ahead of the pack. How fashion trends were more difficult to pin down than a firefly. Firefly my ass. Each decade of the twentieth century, barring the nineties, had a very specific look. Now it was my job to find out what the future looked like. Some call it coolhunting. I call it futurehunting. I’ve got a degree in marketing, studied fashion and design, and I’d merged these skills to carve a niche for myself in Randolph’s marketing company as a new futurehunter. I’d worked for him since I was twenty, and for the past eight years I’d been searching for what was hot and predicting what the market wanted. This information was filtered down to the fashion designers and peripheral industries. Sometimes they used the data, sometimes not, but it was exciting to be part of the process.

     ‘Blue, we’ll start by hearing your take on things,’ Verde said briskly.

     Here we go, I thought. But I was ready.

     ‘We’ve got to look to the future,’ I said, sitting where I was, and keeping my notes firmly closed.

     ‘You’re not suggesting some stupid spacey fashions,’ Marina chipped in.

     ‘Hardly,’ I said. ‘Silver suits and space age wear isn’t where the future lies. I wouldn’t want to hit the shops dressed in aluminum regardless of the labels.’

     ‘Women need something new,’ said Randolph. He spread his arms and glanced around the boardroom. ‘We all want something new.’

     ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘No one in this company has found it yet. Not in New York or anywhere else. I reckon Dublin’s pretty cool — a cosmopolitan city where innovative ideas are bubbling under the surface. I want to be the one to find them.’

     Verde cleared her throat, for attention and effect. ‘Perhaps it’s escaped your notice, Bluebell, but I’m in Dublin right now, working on that precise thing.’

     ‘And you’ve been there since when . . .?’ I said.

     ‘January.’

     ‘This is what . . . the beginning of summer? I haven’t read any of your reports on finding the niche of fashion gold we’re searching for, Verde.’ I was sailing very close to the wind with this one.

     If looks could kill, I’d be toes up in the bone yard.

     Marina decided to throw her opinion into the ring, which thankfully took the heat of me. ‘It was agreed last year that Dublin was an untapped source of designer talent, of fresh creations, and that’s why Verde spearheaded the new offices there. We just need the right coolhunter to track them down.’ She took a deep breath. The bitch was biting to get out. ‘I have to agree with Blue’s snide conjecture that you’ve failed miserably and that someone else, someone younger, needs to go there to do the real job. While of course you continue to run the show in Dublin behind the scenes.’

     Not only was Marina standing on thin ice, she was skating her way down the slippery slope to nowhere fast. We all knew Marina was Randolph’s protégé but even he had his limits. It was one thing to insinuate, it was quite another to say she’d failed miserably and then add the killer twist — that Verde was way past her sell–by–date. Call me shallow, but inside I was cheering. I was mentally wearing a little ra–ra skirt and waving my cheerleading pom poms in the air. Marina was out of the contest.

     A moment’s lull, like an icy breeze, wafted through the boardroom then disappeared rather like Marina’s career was destined to do.

     Across the table, Azuree was flicking through her notes and getting set to argue why she should go to the Emerald Isle. For entertainment value alone, I didn’t want to miss it. Judging by the tired glaze behind her eyes, she’d had precious little sleep the previous night. If I knew Azuree, she’d been cramming for the meeting like it was a college exam. A sure sign of an amateur. If she didn’t know her marketing statistics by now, she wasn’t up to the task. No amount of meticulously applied under eye concealer could hide the fact that she was out of her league.

     One by one the main contenders for the job bit the proverbial dust.

     ‘Right!’ Randolph finally announced. ‘I’ve had enough of this farce.’ He nodded to Verde who made no bid to disagree. Clearly she’d had enough too. The stress of listening to fifteen pitches for glory had actually taken the glow off her face and her blush was more pallor than perfect. Randolph put his hands on the table, fists clenched. ‘Blue. You’re going to Dublin.’

     ‘Thank you,’ I said, smiling.

     ‘And remember,’ Verde added, ‘fuck this up and you’re history.’

     With this bolstering thought, the meeting was over.

     As everyone poured out of the boardroom, Randolph took me aside. ‘I want you to contact someone when you get to Dublin. He’s set up an office in the city. Sears Pearson.’

     ‘Sears?’ I said, momentarily dropping my guard. I hadn’t heard that name in a long time.

     He handed me a business card with the contact details. ‘Look him up. Find out what he’s up to. He’s always been a ruthless son of a bitch.’

     I took the card.

     ‘E–mail me the details, Blue. Don’t go through Verde.’

     I nodded. He didn’t have to explain. Sears and Verde had a history, not of love but of war. I never knew what the scandal was, but suffice to say, Sears hated her more than most.

     I slipped the card into my bag and walked away. Sears Pearson. It was like hearing about a ghost from the past. He’d been the only one to offer any sympathy when I’d been screwed over in Dublin by Morgan. At the time, Sears was working freelance for Randolph in the Manhattan office, but then he struck out on his own. Our paths hadn’t crossed since then. If he was in Dublin, then we were right on the money. There must be new designs, styles and fabrics to be gleaned in Ireland. Sears was one of the best coolhunters in the business and made a small fortune out of predicting future markets. He also happened to be heart–meltingly gorgeous. Blonde, over six foot tall, with sculptured features, a honed physique and style of dress that could only be described as timeless. You could take Sears and put him straight into one of those movies where the hero strides across the desert, golden hair and sapphire blue eyes glinting in the sunlight.

     I’d never thought of Sears as potential relationship material when I’d worked with him. I’d sort of put him in the untouchable category, like my best friend, Harry. Harry was sublime. Women adored him. He worked in the city doing stockbroker stuff. We’d been friends since college and shared an apartment in Manhattan. Harry had promised to look after things while I was away fighting the dragons in Dublin. I’d been friends with him for too long for it to be anything else but platonic. I guess that’s how I’d always thought about Sears, or was it? There was no time to even think about that. Dublin was beckoning. I had to get my act together.

     I walked out of the boardroom.

     ‘Fuck you!’ Marina whispered as we passed in the doorway. Her eyes were almost alight with the hatred she felt for me.

     I paused, and looked right at her. I’ve been told that the coldness of my pale gray eyes is soul destroying. I held her gaze.

     Within seconds she backed down, flicking her hair, glancing at my bitch–proof suit that in close up was every bit as intimidating as at a distance. What was she going to criticize? The color, cut and everything about it was a shield against the typical bitch. No holes in this outfit, real or otherwise. I didn’t have to say anything. She stomped off, her killer heels sounding like an empty echo on the polished wooden floor.

     Paper tiger were the words that brushed through my thoughts as I heard the last of her disappear into the elevator. A deep breath later, I took a call on my phone from Randolph’s assistant confirming my flight schedule to the one place I swore I’d never go back to. Six years ago I’d left Dublin behind, sure that I’d never return. It had almost destroyed me once, but hell . . . I love a challenge!

      

      

      

      

      

      

      

     The plane swept around towards the airport, and I saw the unmistakable silhouette of Dublin’s medieval Christ Church Cathedral rising from the thousand–year–old city. It had been one of the last places I’d seen the night I’d left. Still casting an impressive dark shadow upon the landscape, it felt like I’d never been away.

     Seeing the city again, I could hardly wait to get back. This was my chance to have another go at success here. I used to love Dublin’s timeless mix of ancient and modern culture. The contrasts were amazing — there was everything from futuristic glass structures and modern sculptures, to narrow cobbled streets and cosmopolitan squares alive with people and music. Dublin was such a continental assortment of styles and fashion. The future had to be down there somewhere.

     When the plane landed at the airport I phoned Verde’s office, confirming I’d arrived in Dublin, and took a taxi into the heart of the city. It was nine in the evening, but Verde’s world never slept. My call was transferred and picked up by her assistant, Emer. I could hear a party atmosphere in the background. Emer had my hotel booking all arranged. I was glad she’d chosen my hotel as she was the type of PA who could organize a full scale fashion trip to Europe in a couple of well placed phone calls. Emer also settled for nothing less than the best, so I was booked into one of the top hotels overlooking the River Liffey with a magnificent view of the city.

     Verde came on the line. ‘Hi Blue. Welcome back to Dublin.’ She sounded almost genuine and upbeat. Had she been at the champagne?

     ‘I’m throwing a party this evening,’ she said. ‘You simply have to be here. It’s just two minutes walk from your hotel. Emer has left the details at the hotel reception. It’s going to be wild. Dress to kill.’

     I could tell from her tone that it wasn’t a straightforward social invitation. Nothing was ever straightforward with Verde. It was a ‘be there or you’re dead in the water’ type of invitation. I couldn’t refuse. Even after a long haul flight I couldn’t possibly rain check the party, which was no doubt a company promo disguised as a celebration — Verde’s specialty. And there would be a theme. There was always a theme.

     Settling in at the hotel, I kicked off my shoes and tore open the envelope Emer had left for me. I might have guessed what the theme would be — incognito. Verde had a fascination for mystery and secrets — and deceit. I liked a bit of mystery myself, in moderation of course, but my instincts warned me that there was an underlying reason why she’d chosen this. Perhaps she had a surprise for me. Let’s see . . .? Could it possibly involve Morgan Daire? I sensed it would. How could Verde resist throwing a party to dangle Morgan in front of me and gloat at my reaction? Hmm. Dress to kill, she’d said. Well, she asked for it . . .

     Although I’d wanted a shower, a latte and a time machine so that I could extend the half hour I had to get ready for the party, I settled for two out of the three. I showered first and then ordered a latte from room service. I’d really wanted to flake out on the bed, which was completely sumptuous, just like the entire room. It even had its own small balcony. I slid open the glass doors and stepped out to admire the view. It was the most perfect summer evening — warm without so much as a whisper of a breeze, and vibrating with potential. I sipped the latte, but it was the thought of the night ahead that lifted my energy, and I mentally prepared what I’d wear for maximum impact. No bitch–proof suit tonight. I was saving it for another day. Besides, there was more than one way to skin a cat.

      

     Okay, so I wasn’t going in disguise, but I had a trick up the sleeve of my sheer silver jacket. It was an ace card that I could only play once. I was banking on Morgan being there. I could almost taste the set up. Fine, I’d play along. Verde was a master of manipulation, but I was betting that Morgan Daire was playing in a league he just wasn’t ready for.

     The evening air felt warm against my skin as I walked the short distance from my hotel to the venue. There were lots of people about, and I paused for a moment to look at the reflections of the nightlife sparkling on the surface of the Liffey. It was good to be back.

     Taking a steadying breath, I approached the entrance to the party. Through the glass doors I saw that it was busy with hundreds of people. Two doormen in evening suits welcomed me in, and I noted that my name was near the top of the guest list. The sounds of laughter, lively music, and the buzz that only Dublin can stir up pulled me in. I glanced around and up towards the second floor balcony where gilded lights hung down from an impossibly high ceiling. The decor was a heady mix of the Far East with velvet seats, cushions and exotic palms with subtle touches of Irish hospitality. I had to admit, it looked fantastic, and although I knew I was here to play Verde’s contrived game, I couldn’t help feeling like I really wanted to have fun. It arrived sooner than I’d imagined.

     ‘Blue! Hi! Isn’t this fabulous,’ Verde said, homing in on me. She was head to toe in her ubiquitous black separates and had a cocktail glass in her carefully manicured hand. I didn’t hear her wrist crack as she sipped her drink, but she was wearing gold bracelets to camouflage the damage. ‘We’ve even got our very own cocktail,’ she said, giving me no time to respond. ‘It’s a Dublin Manhattan Gold — you simply have to try a sip.’

     As if on cue, a waiter offered me a glass of the amber liquid. I tasted it. ‘It’s delicious,’ I said, smiling, and without a hint of a lie. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, food or both, but this thing had a real kick in it and the effect was . . . rather good.

     ‘I had it specially created. It’s an intriguing mix of Irish whiskey, rum, triple sec and sweet vermouth — with just a hint of mystery,’ she said in a confiding tone. ‘Perfect for women like us, Blue.’

     ‘Whatever it is, it tastes good,’ I said, feeling that momentary conflict of extreme emotions whenever I encountered Verde having not met her for a while. At one end of the scale, I despised her two faced bitching, and at the other I felt almost sad that we weren’t friends. To outsiders we appeared to be on close terms and she almost managed to fool me a few times when her ingenuous smile led me to believe that deep down she really liked me.

     ‘I do love your hair,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear it like that before. I hardly recognized you.’

     ‘I felt like doing something different with it.’

     She nodded approvingly. ‘You should wear it in a chignon more often. Blondes can look so sophisticated with an up do, don’t you think. And I adore the firefly.’ She was referring to the sparkling clasp in my hair. It was an antique, and the wings were studded with diamante. Although not expensive, to me it was priceless, a sort of lucky charm I’d had for years.

     ‘Wherever did you get that cocktail dress?’ she asked, suddenly stepping back to admire my outfit.

     ‘Oh this is just something I brought over with me. I keep it for special occasions.’ It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the full story either. When I’d been packing my bags for the trip, I’d come across some amazing clothes I hadn’t worn since Dublin. In fact, this is where I’d originally bought them. I’d taken them back home with me to New York. They were too beautiful to throw away, but the memories were too raw to wear them again — until now. They’d been perfectly wrapped in the finest tissue paper and hidden in my wardrobe all this time. Without a second’s thought, I’d added them to my luggage. Tonight I’d worn this particular dress for a very special reason. Morgan was in for a surprise.

     ‘Fabulous, really fabulous,’ said Verde. She linked her arm through mine. ‘We should go and join the others.’

     Within the sea of faces I didn’t recognize anyone, and then, from the second floor balcony, I saw Morgan, or rather, I saw his reaction when he saw me. The fun was about to begin.

     Verde and I made our way up the stairs. This was it. No turning back.

     ‘Morgan’s been so looking forward to seeing you again,’ said Verde.

     I shot her a glance.

     She squeezed my arm tight and pulled me closer to her. ‘Seriously,’ she emphasized, her blue eyes unflinching.

     I smiled. ‘You know I don’t believe a word you’re saying.’

     ‘Oh but you will. Morgan’s got secrets — and I know them all,’ she whispered.

     He was standing at the top of the stairs, his intense green eyes reflecting that I’d chosen the right outfit. Like a ghost from the past, I was back to haunt the present. I was wearing the same sheer silver and black silk dress and jacket I’d worn the last time Morgan and I were ever together. I’d even worn my hair in the same way.

     ‘Doesn’t Blue look divine,’ said Verde, depositing me right in front of him. At well over six feet tall he towered above both of us, and was a vision of brooding darkness in a well cut black suit and deep emerald shirt.

     ‘Like a familiar stranger,’ he murmured. The resonance of his rich tone sounded clear above the bustling noise of the party.

     Hearing his seductive Dublin accent again almost took my breath away. Luckily, I could see he wasn’t coping very well with meeting me again. The muscles in his jaw were tightening and I sensed that his instincts had hit him like a hammer striking glass. I’d just shattered whatever he’d been anticipating. I’d done my best to step back in time as if the past six years were but a moment away. I hadn’t needed that time machine after all.

     Unfortunately, I’d put so much thought into creating an effect on him, that I hadn’t prepared myself for the effect he’d have on me. I’d thought I could walk right up to him, but it wasn’t that simple. Outwardly I gave the impression of being ultra cool and confident, but inside I was a wreck. Okay, so I’d definitely rattled Morgan, but I felt myself being crushed just seeing him again. His hair was even sexier than before, with a few dark strands falling over his forehead, emphasizing his deep, green gaze. His face was more sculptured, and although his lips bore no hint of a smile, the dimples in his cheeks were a permanent feature of his inherent charm.

     ‘Blue’s going to be working with me for the next few months,’ Verde said. ‘She’s heading up the coolhunting office. It’s going to be fun.’

     ‘Good luck,’ Morgan said, meaning anything but that. It was a Dublin thing to wish someone good luck in an undertone that really meant — yeah right, no chance.

     ‘I take it you think I’ve a snowball’s chance in a furnace of finding success here this time,’ I said bluntly, using one of his favorite expressions.

     Morgan blinked. ‘Clearly you’ve become more fiercely ambitious than Vee–Vee, so I withdraw any insinuations. I’m sure you’ll be a wild success.’

     My blood was burning. How dare he! But I didn’t want to rise to the bait, which was obviously what he wanted.

     ‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ I said, smiling defiantly.

     Suddenly, a man stepped from the crowd and swept me off my feet — literally. I gave a scream of surprise, and then laughed as I realized it was Murphy, one of the closest friends I’d had in Dublin. He was an incorrigible rogue of a man in his mid thirties who was highly influential in the city. Last time I’d seen him, he was being lauded as the next big name in the designer industry. He placed me down, kissed my hand and gave me a warm hug. I’d never been so pleased to have an Irish welcome. I swear Morgan’s eyes turned a deeper shade of green.

     ‘Murphy!’ I squealed, ‘It’s great to see you again.’

     Verde glanced between us. She hadn’t anticipated that I’d know anyone at the party, especially someone like Murphy who was an immensely popular designer on the fashion scene. Lean and lithe with wild auburn hair and a week’s worth of stubble on his chin, he looked like the epitome of artistic cool. Often described as a modern classic talent, it was a label that suited him as perfectly as his elaborately designed cream shirt.

     Murphy held me at arms length. ‘Blue Byrne! You look great. What’s it been, five, six years now? You don’t look any different.’

     ‘That’s because she’s wearing the same dress she wore the night she ran away,’ Morgan said. He didn’t even attempt to disguise the bitterness in his tone.

     ‘I’m surprised you remember, considering what a bastard you were to her before,’ Murphy snapped in his lilting, Dublin accent.

     There was an explosive silence, but inside I was cheering. Murphy had said exactly what I’d love to have told Morgan.

     ‘Were you anything more than an ingratiating arsehole, we’d settle this outside,’ Morgan growled at Murphy, then walked away to the bar.

     Murphy shrugged off the insult and focused his attention on me. ‘How long are you going to be in Dublin?’

     ‘Four months,’ I said.

     ‘Brilliant!’

     An announcement on the P.A. system interrupted our conversation. ‘I’d like to ask everyone to raise their glasses and drink a toast to Murphy. Congratulations on your new fashion collection.’

     Someone beckoned Murphy over to a raised platform. Apparently this was just one of several events to publicize his autumn/winter collection.

     Murphy glanced at Verde and then at Morgan who was watching us like a hawk from the bar. ‘These people don’t even like you,’ Murphy said to me. ‘Come on over here with me. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.’ He took hold of my hand and led me away.

     Verde called after me. ‘Work starts tomorrow at eight, Bluebell. Don’t be late.’

     I turned and nodded, as Murphy pulled me into the hub of the crowd.

     I couldn’t have asked for a better slingshot into the local fashion scene. The evening was abuzz with the party spirit and everyone wanted to know who the woman was on Murphy’s arm. And it was me. He’d hardly let go of me. By the end of the night I had about ten different business cards in my handbag to kick start my networking with the movers and shakers.

     I finally persuaded Murphy to untether me so I could go to the ladies room. Verde walked in behind me. She’d obviously been watching and waiting for her moment. The lack of my bitch–proof suit was about to be put to the test.

     ‘Congratulations Blue. Round one to you,’ she said, fixing her hair in the mirror and then enveloping both of us in a bubble of expensive perfume as she spritzed it on lavishly. ‘Morgan has already left fuming.’

     Maybe it was the cocktails, but she seemed happy her plan hadn’t worked.

     ‘Is there something going on between you and Morgan I should know about?’ I said.

     ‘Oh there’s definitely something going on between Morgan and me — but you really shouldn’t know about it,’ she said cryptically.

     ‘A secret, is it?’

     ‘Absolutely,’ she said in a conspiratorial voice, drifting back into the party crowd.

     I let her go. If there’s one thing I’d learned from experience, it was that getting a secret out of Verde was the human equivalent of prying open Fort Knox. The only way to get the information was to find a key. You’d never force it out of her.

      

     ‘I’m going to live out of a suitcase for a couple of weeks, just to see how things settle at work, and then look for an apartment to rent.’

     ‘I’ve got friends in the property market. Let me know and I’ll help you arrange something.’

     ‘Thanks.’

     At that moment, Morgan’s sleek black car revved up and parked opposite the hotel.

     ‘Call me paranoid, but I think we’re being watched,’ Murphy said, with a twinkle of humor in his mischievous hazel eyes.

     Wickedly, Murphy and I both smiled across at Morgan and waved. He drove off at speed.

     ‘Arrogant arsehole,’ Murphy muttered, and then took my arm, linked it with his, and walked me into the hotel. He kissed my hand flamboyantly, with charm and wit, and bid me goodnight.

     It was something else I’d forgotten about Dublin — the almost chivalrous hand kissing and old fashioned gestures. I remembered I’d even had men kneel down and kiss my Italian suede boots, making me feel like a damsel from another era. To find such gestures, whether or not they were frivolous tongue in cheek and part of the Irish charm, was like finding a diamond in the rough. In today’s world of slick bastards and commitment phobic guys, it was refreshingly heartfelt.

     Harry phoned the hotel minutes after I got up to my room.

     ‘How did things go with the wicked witch?’ he asked, using his favorite nickname for Verde.

     ‘She set me up.’

     ‘Still as predictable as ever, huh?’

     ‘She threw a party, and spun a web for me while she was at it.’

     ‘I take it Morgan was there.’

     I sighed wearily.

     ‘Okay, what happened?’

     ‘Verde invited him to the party. I knew she would, so I was ready.’

     ‘How did you feel seeing him again? Had he got fat, gone to seed, lost some of that legendary Irish charm you said he had?’

     ‘No, he’s even more handsome and as darkly charming as ever. I felt completely distraught. You know that time we went to the funfair? How you practically forced me on to that stomach churning roller coaster?’

     Harry laughed. ‘And when you got off, you looked like you’d been through a wind tunnel at speed.’

     ‘Well that’s how I felt when I saw him again,’ I paused. ‘I’m so angry. I thought I could handle it, but I messed it up big style.’

     ‘What have you been drinking?’

     ‘Who said I’d been drinking?’ I said, and then hiccuped

     ‘Oh it was just a wild guess.’

     ‘Cocktails. Dublin Manhattan Golds to be precise. And they’re good.’

     ‘Too good by the sounds of it.’

     ‘Don’t worry, you know the cocktail lifestyle isn’t my scene. I just needed to let my hair down a little.’

     I glanced in the mirror. Strands of hair were dangling down from my carefully sculptured chignon. I’d been dancing the night away with Murphy’s crowd. Dubliners certainly knew how to party. I looked like a wild woman, and unclasped the firefly to let my hair tumble free.

     ‘So what’s on the agenda tomorrow? Is Verde still running the show over there?’

     ‘Pretty much, but I’m going to have my own office and I’ll be heading the actual futurehunting,’ I explained, recounting the details Emer had left for me. ‘Despite everything, I’m looking forward to it. I met Murphy at the party. He’s a fashion designer I used to know, and we’ve arranged to meet up. He’s promised to give me the lowdown on what’s happening on the design front in Dublin. We’re having breakfast in one of my favorite places tomorrow. It’s a traditional Irish cafe. I used to go there all the time. They serve the most delicious Dublin breakfasts.’

     ‘You’re making me jealous already.’

     ‘Scrumptious, freshly baked soda bread and pancakes served with —’

     ‘Your ass will get fat.’

     ‘It will not.’

     ‘It will, you’re ass will triple like an overdone soufflé.’

     I laughed. ‘I lost weight the last time I was here. A diet of heartbreak, stress and harassment works for me,’ I said, half joking. ‘If anyone’s going to get fat it’s you because I won’t be there to make sure you eat properly.’

     We both laughed. Harry was a stickler for eating right and had membership of two gyms. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.

     ‘What time is it in Manhattan?’ I asked, suddenly feeling a twinge of homesickness.

     ‘Time you got some sleep. I’ll bet Verde’s going to be cracking the whip bright and early tomorrow.’

     He was right, of course, as usual.

     ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Be good. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

     ‘As if,’ he said. I could hear the smile in his voice. ‘And remember — don’t let the Irish charmer get to you.’

     ‘Never,’ I assured him, hoping this was true.