Valentine Vendetta

‘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 war

paint 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 falls in love with him!’ Rosie gave a gloomy shrug. ‘You can’t help yourself.’

‘Then it’s a pity I can’t meet him,’ observed Fran. ‘Since that sounds like the sort of challenge it would give me great pleasure to resist!’

‘I’d like to see you try!’