‘Oohh wouldn’t be too into that now, myself. Just having to buy clothes for all those events would be my worst nightmare. But you’re used to that kind of lifestyle, it will be no bother to you,’ Hilary said bracingly.
‘Umm,’ Colette sighed. ‘I wish we could have had time for a real chat – why didn’t you get rid of that Jonathan yoke on Friday night? He was very insensitive. He should have known we would have liked a private conversation,’ she rebuked petulantly.
‘Don’t be like that, Colette. I didn’t know you were coming and I couldn’t do the hot potato act to Jonathan. He’s a very nice guy,’ Hilary reproved.
‘He doesn’t know his place! I could hardly get a word in edgeways – he had an opinion on everything and he took charge of your kitchen as if he owned it, and you hardly know him,’ she retorted huffily, not used to being demoted to second place by Hilary.
‘Sometimes you just know who’s going to be a good friend and he’s going to be a good friend of mine,’ Hilary said firmly. And you were the one who took over the conversation, she thought crossly but kept it to herself.
‘Well I am your oldest friend! And we don’t get to see each other that often any more. You never come to London now.’
‘We’ll see each other at Rowena’s wedding next month!’ Hilary pointed out.
‘Aw hell! I forgot about that. I hope Des will be around for it. I’ll check it out. Anyway I’d better go. We’re calling in to Mum and Dad’s for brunch before going to the airport, and I’m not finished packing yet. I’ll ring you before the wedding,’ Colette said hastily, glancing at her watch. ‘Just wanted to tell you my news, byeee.’
Colette had completely forgotten about Rowena Ryan’s wedding, she tutted, neatly folding her clothes into the Louis Vuitton case that was open on the bed. Rowena, an old school chum, was the last of their set to get married. She was having a glitzy late-June wedding and her father, a well-known developer, had hired out the new Mont Clare Hotel in Merrion Square for a two-day bash.
Colette was looking forward to showing off in the wildly expensive black off-the-shoulder Christina Stambolian gown that Des had bought her for her last birthday. It was one of her ‘investment pieces’ as he liked to call them and he had been as proud as Punch when she had worn it to a gala night where he had been hosting a table for charity. ‘Princess Di has nothing on you,’ he’d enthused when she’d modelled it for him. Des was a generous husband. He never begrudged the money she spent on style. He actively encouraged her and she knew it was because it reflected well on him and the lifestyle he was able to afford. No way would Niall Hammond ever be able to afford Christina Stambolian and Catherine Walker gowns, and trips to Paris, for Hilary to buy a designer wardrobe, even though he had a very good job, Colette thought smugly, packing away her toiletries. Hilary was too chunky for couture fashion anyway. It would be wasted on her. She was at least a size 14 compared to Colette’s petite size 10.
If Des couldn’t go to Rowena’s wedding she’d go on her own, but she hoped her husband would be able to accompany her. It would be the ideal opportunity to let all their Irish friends and acquaintances know they were moving Stateside and impress them.
‘Get a move on, sweetie, I’ve paid the bill!’ Des strode into the room looking extremely debonair and sporty in his pale blue Lacoste shirt and tailored cream trousers. Preppy, very American, she thought happily, observing his tanned good looks with pleasure. He reminded her of a young Robert Redford with his tawny blond hair, blue eyes and square jaw. She had married well, Colette comforted herself, remembering the brown-eyed, black-haired, well-built medical student who had broken her heart. He could never carry off a preppy look – he was far too untidy with his curly hair tumbling into his eyes, and his odd socks because he’d dressed in a hurry. But she felt a pang of longing remembering their lusty love-making, knowing that her husband had never brought her to the heights of happiness that Rod Killeen had . . . or the depths of despair, she thought crossly, wondering why he had come into her head after all these years.
Des shrugged into his navy blazer, slotted some floppy disks into his portable-computer bag, zipped it up and slung it over his shoulder. ‘I want to send a fax to London and NY. I’ll send a porter up for the luggage and I’ll meet you in the lobby. Don’t be long,’ he instructed briskly. He was anxious to get back home to London to make a start on his preparations for the big move. Colette felt herself begin to tense up as he hurried out the door. He’d be like a coiled spring, edgy and restless for the foreseeable future, and that she was not looking forward to.
She glanced out of the window across to St Stephen’s Green. A myriad of pink, blues, greens and yellows daubed against an
