Valentine Vendetta. Sharon Kendrick

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ Fran drily. ‘The usual story.’

      ‘And that life isn’t worth living any more.’

      ‘She said what?’ That had been the statement which had brought Fran up short and had her booking the next London-bound flight out of Dublin. Not that she believed for a minute that Rosie would do anything stupid—but she was normally such a happy-go-lucky person. For her mother to be this worried, things must be bad.

      Now she could see for herself that they were worse than bad.

      She had found Rosie curled up like a baby on the sofa of one very cold flat. And the conversation had gone round and round in a loop, consisting of Rosie saying, Oh, Fran. Fran! Fran!’ Followed by a renewed bout of shuddering tears.

      ‘Ssssh, now. It’s all right.’ Fran squeezed her friend’s shoulder tightly as the tears came thick and fast. ‘Why don’t you take a deep breath, calm down and tell me what’s wrong.’

      Rosie made a sound like a cat who was trying to swallow a mouse in one. ‘C-c-can’t!’ she shuddered.

      ‘Off the top of my head, I’d say it’s a man?’ said Fran, thinking that it might be wise not to mention the worried phone call. Not just yet.

      Rosie nodded.

      ‘So tell me about him.’

      ‘He’s….he’s…oh!’

      ‘He’s what?’ prompted Fran softly.

      ‘He’s a bastard—and I still love him!’

      Fran nodded. So. As she had thought. The usual story. She’d heard women pour the same sorry tale out countless times before and the more cruel the man, the more they seemed to love him. She wondered if some women were so lacking in self-esteem that they chose someone who would walk all over them. But she wouldn’t have put Rosie in that category. ‘Oh, I see.’

      ‘No, you don’t, Fran!’ Rosie shook her head in frustration. ‘You say you do but you don’t! How could anyone see? You just sit there with that seen-it-all-before look on your face—’

      ‘I’ve never seen you like this before,’ Fran disagreed immediately. ‘And I’ve known you most of your life! And before you insult me much more, Rosie Nichols—I might just remind you that I’ve flown over at top speed from Dublin, in answer to an urgent request from your mother that I find out exactly what’s wrong with you.’

      ‘My mother asked you to come?’

      ‘She wasn’t interfering, if that’s what you’re thinking. She was just worried, and wanted me to see how you were.’

      Rosie looked at her defiantly. ‘So now you know.’

      Fran shook her head. ‘Oh, no,’ she corrected grimly. ‘I haven’t even started yet! All I know is that I walk into your flat which looks as though a major war has broken out—to find you sitting in a pathetic heap looking gaunt and tear-stained—sobbing bitterly about some mystery man whose name you can’t bring yourself to utter—’

      ‘Sam,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘His name is Sam.’

      ‘Sam!’ echoed Fran with a ghost of a smile. ‘That’s Sam whose paternity you questioned just a minute ago, is it? And does this Sam have a surname?’

      ‘It’s Lockhart.’ Rosie looked at her expectantly. ‘Sam Lockhart.’

      ‘Sam Lockhart.’ Fran considered this. ‘Cute name. Catchy.’

      ‘You haven’t heard of him?’

      ‘No. Should I have done?’

      ‘Maybe not. But he’s rich and gorgeous and those kind of attributes tend to get you known—especially among women.’

      ‘Tell me more.’

      Rosie shrugged her shoulders morosely. ‘He’s a literary agent. The best. They say if Sam takes you on, you’re almost certain to end up living in tax-exile! He’s got an instinctive nose for a best seller!’

      Fran tried not to look too disapproving. ‘And I suppose he’s married?’

      ‘Married? You’re kidding!’ Rosie shook her head so that wild curls spilled untidily around her face. ‘What do you take me for?’

      Fran breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Well, he’s not completely bad, then,’ she said. ‘Married men who play away from home are the worst. And I should know!’ She flicked Rosie another look. ‘Has he ever been married?’

      Rosie shook her head. ‘No, he’s single. Still single,’ she added, and stared down at her chewed fingernails as tears began to splash uninhibitedly onto her hands.

      Fran gave Rosie’s shoulder another squeeze. ‘Want to tell me all about it?’

      ‘I guess,’ said Rosie listlessly.

      ‘How long since you’ve eaten?’

      Rosie shrugged. ‘I had coffee for breakfast—but there’s nothing much in the flat.’

      Resisting the urge to remark that judging by the general air of neglect any food would probably carry a health warning, Fran shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said gently. ‘I’m taking you out for dinner.’

      Rosie momentarily brightened until she caught sight of herself in the mirror. ‘But I can’t go out looking like this!’

      ‘Too right—you can’t,’ agreed Fran calmly. ‘So go and do something to your hair, slap on some warpaint and for goodness sake, lose those hideous baggy trousers!’

      An hour later, they were installed in a booth at ‘Jacko’s!’—a restaurant/bar which had just opened up on the water’s edge at one of London’s less fashionable riverside locations. It had the indefinable buzz of success about it. Fran smiled up at the waitress whose skirt barely covered her underwear and ordered two alien-sounding cocktails from the menu.

      She stared across the table at Rosie whom she had known since they were both fat-faced three-year-olds toddling into school on their first day at Nursery, where Rosie had demonstrated her ability for attracting trouble by losing her teddy bear down the side of a bookcase. And Fran had slipped her small hand in and retrieved it.

      It had set a pattern for their school years. Rosie got herself into a scrape and Fran got her out of it! Since Fran had moved to Dublin five years ago, their paths rarely crossed, but after a few minutes back in her old friend’s company, Fran felt as if they’d never been apart.

      Well, maybe not quite.

      Rosie seemed terribly distracted, jumpy even—but maybe in the circumstances that was understandable. Her face looked harder, too. But Fran told herself that people changed—she had changed herself. She had had to. That was all part of life’s rich tapestry. Or so they said….

      ‘Now tell me,’ she said firmly. ‘Just who Sam Lockhart is—and why you’ve fallen in love with him.’

      ‘Oh, everyone СКАЧАТЬ