Valentine Vendetta. Sharon Kendrick

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      Fran liberated a smooth strand of hair which had somehow become all twisted up in the string of pearls she wore and fixed her friend with a stern expression. ‘In my earlier life as an agony aunt on a well-known Dublin radio station,’ she said, ‘I soon learnt that the easiest way to forget a man is to start thinking of him as a mere mortal and not as a god. Debunk the myth, that’s what I say!’

      Rosie screwed her nose up. ‘Come again?’

      ‘Stop making everything about him seem so wonderful and extraordinary—’

      ‘But it is!’

      Fran shook her head. ‘That’s the wrong way to look at it. Try concentrating on all the bad things about him instead!’

      ‘Like what?’

      ‘Well, I don’t know the man, so I can’t really help you with that. But instead of describing him as, say, utterly unobtainable, tell yourself that he’s arrogant and distant and nobody in their right mind would want to live with him! Right?’

      ‘Er, right,’ said Rosie doubtfully.

      Fran winced as a silver beaker of what looked and smelt like cough medicine was placed in front of her. She took a tentative sip through the straw and nearly shot off the edge of her seat before a dreamy kind of lethargy began to melt her bones. Still, some light an-aesthetic might be just what Rosie needed.

      ‘Drink up,’ she instructed and leaned forward eagerly as she began to slide the drink across the table towards Rosie. ‘And tell me what happened. Like—where did you meet him?’

      Rosie took a quick slug of the cocktail. ‘Remember when I did that stint as a secretary for Gordon-Browne—that big firm of literary agents? Well, Sam was their star player and we got kind of, you know…involved.’

      Fran nodded, thinking how unusually coy Rosie sounded. ‘So how long did it last?’

      ‘Er, not as long as I would have liked.’

      ‘And when did it end?’

      ‘Oh, ages ago now,’ gulped Rosie vaguely. ‘Months and months. Longer, even. Over two years,’ she admitted at last.

      ‘Two years?’ Fran blinked. ‘But surely you should be getting over it by now?’

      ‘Why?’ Rosie sniffed. ‘How long did it take you to get over the breakup of your marriage to Sholto?’

      ‘Oh, no.’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’re here to talk about you, not me. Surely you haven’t been like this since it ended?’

      Rosie shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t—but my life has never been the same since Sam. He brought me bad luck. I haven’t been able to settle into another job or another relationship. And now I’ve heard….’ Her voice tailed off into silence.

      Fran hoped to high heaven that this man Sam hadn’t done something like announcing his engagement to someone else. That would be hard. Though maybe a brutal demonstration of his love for someone else might be just the cure that Rosie actually needed. ‘Heard what?’ she asked.

      ‘He’s planning to throw a ball. Which is totally out of character!’

      Which immediately told Fran that he must be rich. And well connected. ‘And?’

      ‘It’s a Valentine’s Day Ball. And I want to be invited,’ said Rosie fiercely.

      ‘Well, you might be. Don’t you think?’

      ‘No, I don’t. But I would, wouldn’t I—if you were organizing it! You’d make sure of that!’ Rosie’s eyes took on a hopeful gleam.

      Fran shook her head as she saw which way the conversation was heading. ‘Oh, no!’

      ‘Fran, it’s your job! That’s what you do for a living, you plan people’s parties for them.’

      ‘Yes, you’re right, I do. But it’s also my livelihood, Rosie, and I have my reputation to think of. Huge, high-profile society balls aren’t really my thing. And I don’t just go around using these events to settle grudges for friends—however much I love them. Staging some kind of Valentine vendetta! Which I presume is what you want me to do. Or is it just an invitation you’re after? You want to dress to kill and then knock his socks off, is that it?’

      ‘Maybe.’

      Fran gave a wistful smile. ‘It won’t work, you know. It never does. If this man Sam has fallen out of love with you—then nothing you can say or do will bring him back. Nothing,’ she emphasised flatly. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid.’

      Rosie bit down on her lip. ‘But he never was in love with me.’

      ‘Oh. Oh, I see.’ Fran’s eyes softened. ‘Well, in that case I’m very sorry, hon,’ she said gently. ‘What can I say?’

      Rosie took a mouthful of Fran’s discarded cocktail, then looked up, her eyes two fierce burning stars in her face. ‘I was just another virgin for Sam to seduce,’ she said dully. ‘To pick up and discard once he’d had what he wanted!’

      Something primitive cracked like an old bone inside Fran’s head. She remembered their schoolgirl dreams about men and rice and white dresses and knew she should not be shocked at what Rosie had just told her—certainly not in this day and age, and yet she was shocked. Deeply. ‘He took your virginity?’ she said slowly. ‘Did he know?’

      ‘Yes, of course he knew.’ Rosie gave a cynical laugh. ‘I saved it, Fran. I saved my virginity for the man I loved.’

      But he didn’t love you back, Fran thought, flexing her hands on the table, unconsciously mirroring the movement of a fat, ginger cat who lay sprawled across one corner of the bar. ‘And in spite of not loving you—he took the most precious thing you had to offer?’

      ‘That’s right,’ sniffed Rosie. ‘And I wasn’t the only one!’

      ‘You mean there were others?’

      ‘Hundreds!’

      ‘Hundreds?’

      ‘Well, tens anyway. Loads!’ Rosie spat the word out. ‘Women who adored him. Women he didn’t give tup-pence for! Women who were all too easy to trick into his bed!’

      ‘You’re kidding!’

      ‘I wish I was!’

      Fran stared down at the silver gleam of the high-tech table, and thought of rich Sam Lockhart luring decent, hard-working girls like Rosie into his bed. A powerful man abusing that power to seduce innocent young women.

      When she eventually lifted her golden-brown head to meet her friend’s eyes, her own were deadly serious. She remembered the scrapes that Rosie had managed to land herself in at school, scrapes that Fran had somehow always got her out of. But this was different. Was it her place to help, even if she could?

      ‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked at last.

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