Valentine Vendetta

Fran thought back to that awful night—was it only eight short days and not a lifetime since it had happened?—when she had sped back to London in a mud-spattered evening dress, ruining it in the process and incurring not just the wrath of the hire-shop, but a huge bill into the bargain.

She had taken the first available flight over to Ireland, and gone straight away to see her friends Fergal and Patsy, who lived halfway up the side of a mountain in County Sligo. She had told them the whole story of the ball, and instead of looking outraged, they had simply laughed.

‘Sure, and wasn’t it just a bit of fun?’ Patsy had giggled.

‘Maybe,’ said Fran hopefully, wondering why she didn’t find their words more reassuring.

Of course Patsy and Fergal had not seen that frosty gaze as Sam’s eyes had swept around the marquee like an ice-axe—searching for her, no doubt. Oh, why had she cowered behind the pillar, instead of meeting that accusing stare head-on? She could even have gone one step further and joined Rosie and the others, had the courage of their convictions and told him that he was a no-good rat.

Except that the image of Sam as a no-good rat was one which was stubbornly refusing to be real any more. From the first time she’d met him it had been an image which had never seemed to fit.

Fran had gone back to her own flat, expecting to find that he had sent her some kind of furious communication. By fax. Or phone. Or e-mail. Or solicitor’s letter…

But there was nothing. Not from Sam. Zilch. Just the faxes telling her that as a party-planner, her days were numbered.

Fran sighed. She may not have heard anything from the man who had the most right to be angry, but she had heard plenty from other people. The newspapers which had come flooding through her letter-box in the days following the incident, for a start.

It had made a very readable little piece on a quiet weekday morning, when there was no real news around. Mirroring the theme of a film which had been popular at the end of the previous year, the column had inspired a whole clutch of ‘revenge’ articles.

Arguments then raged across the features pages of the tabloid press for days. Did Sam Deserve It? screamed one. While another carried a photograph of Rosie drinking a glass of champagne and lying on a chaise-longue in a too-low dress, proclaiming ‘I Still Love the Bastard!’

Fran looked at the photograph closely. For all the dramatic headlines Rosie looked as if she was enjoying every minute of it, judging by the picture. It looked like her broken heart was intact once more. Fran sighed.

Outside the streets of Dublin buzzed with life, while inside Fran felt as empty as a biscuit tin, with a feeling of loneliness she couldn’t quite shake off. Not surprising, really. No work to keep her occupied—and not a lot of any in the immediate future, either. Not until all this fuss had died down, that was for sure.

No relationship, either, of course. Mustn’t forget that. Funny how it had never seemed to bother her before. In fact, she had sworn herself off men when her marriage had collapsed. The slow, nagging pain of a divorce seemed to pervade every aspect of your life and Fran had decided that it was better to steer clear of men, than risk them messing up your life for her.

So what was different now?

Because one man had stirred her emotions up? And because that man would never look at her with anything but disdain ever again?

The doorbell buzzed and Fran pulled a face, tempted to ignore it. Who could it be, other than the bearer of yet more bad tidings? Another letter terminating a contract, perhaps. Or a panicky pronouncement from her neurotic landlord, maybe. Asking her how she was intending to pay her rent when everyone in the city knew that she wasn’t working and wasn’t likely to in the foreseeable future.

The doorbell buzzed again.

‘All right! I’m coming!’ she called crossly, tightly knotting the belt of her gold kimono.

She didn’t use the peephole, or the chain—but maybe that was because Dublin had always felt so utterly safe to her ever since she had first gone to live there. She pulled the door open and there stood Sam blocking out just about every bit of available light. But then, he was a big man.

Fran blinked uneasily. ‘Sam,’ she said cautiously.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘Sam. The man himself.’

Fran gulped. Yes, indeed.

As usual, he was dressed in denim—the jeans and jacket a bright, familiar blue. Underneath the jacket he wore a dark, roll-neck sweater which looked very soft. Unlike his eyes which were hard and bright. They looked like eyes which meant trouble, and Fran wished that she had enough guts to tell him to go away and then to shut the door in his face.

She saw that he was carrying the overnight bag she had left behind and when he noticed her looking at it, he dropped it unceremoniously at her feet.

‘You left in such a hurry,’ he emphasised sarcastically, ‘that you forgot to take this.’

She pushed it against the wall with her bare foot. ‘Er, thanks.’

‘Well, Fran,’ he said silkily, and she was appalled to discover how pleased she was to hear that honey-sweet voice. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me inside?’

Was he angry with her? It was impossible to work out from the look on his face just what he was feeling inside.

Still. He didn’t seem too hostile.