Sushi for Beginners - Marian Keyes [159]
For a moment the cloud of clothing anxiety cleared and she was inflicted with a sudden, unwelcome overview. What am I doing?
Nothing, she thought defensively. She was doing nothing. She was meeting someone for a cup of coffee. A friend. A friend who happened to be a man. What was the problem? This wasn’t some Muslim country where she’d be stoned for being seen in public with a man who wasn’t her husband or brother. Anyway, he wasn’t even her type. She was just having fun. Harmless fun.
But she shook back her swishy hair, feeling exhilarated, buzzy, tingly.
Black trousers and a tight candy-pink T-shirt were what she eventually decided on. She looked into the mirror and she saw herself through his eyes. His regard for her was endearingly obvious and she felt beautiful and powerful.
Coffee, she reminded herself firmly, as she swung out into the street. That’s all. Where’s the harm in that? And she pushed away the guilt and anticipation that swirled nauseously in her belly.
*
Ashling raced into the pub. She was late. Again.
‘Marcus,’ she gasped. ‘I’m so sorry. Bitch-face Lisa decided at the last minute to make me input my horse-riding feature. She wants to get a “feel” for the November issue.’ She rolled her eyes contemptuously and luckily Marcus joined in. So he couldn’t have been too pissed off at being left sitting in the Thomas Reid for nearly half an hour.
‘I’ll just have a quick quadruple vodka-and-tonic, then we’ll go for a bite, OK? Are you ready for another pint?’
Marcus got to his feet. ‘Sit down, the hardest-working woman in magazines, I’ll get the drinks. Do you really want a quadruple?’
Ashling slumped gratefully into a chair. ‘Thanks. A double will do.’
When Marcus returned with the drink, he swung back into his seat and said, ‘Listen, I just wanted to remind you that I’m going to Edinburgh on the sixteenth. For the Festival.’
‘Sixteenth of August?’ Ashling was horrified. She had some vague memory of him having mentioned it ages ago. ‘But that’s only two weeks away… Look,’ she was craven and frantic, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Marcus, but I’m not going to be able to go with you. Really, you wouldn’t believe what work is like. We’re flat out and there’s so much work to be done on the launch party alone, never mind the magazine
Marcus assumed a wounded expression.
‘I could try to swing a weekend,’ Ashling offered breathlessly. ‘Even though Lisa says we’ll be working every weekend, if I ask nicely she might say…’
‘Don’t bother.’
She hated when he got like this. He was lovely most of the time, but whenever he felt insecure or unsupported he became cold and aggressive, and she couldn’t bear confrontation.
‘I’ll try,’ she said desperately. ‘Really, I will.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘Look,’ her voice quavered, ‘after the end of August, work will totally quieten down for me. Maybe we could even go away together, grab a late-availability week in Greece or something.
‘Cheer up,’ she softly urged his stony face. Still no reaction. ‘Ah, come on, funny-man,’ she cajoled. ‘One of Ireland’s top comedians, tell us a joke.’
Marcus almost catapulted from his seat. ‘Tell you a joke!’ he demanded, in shockingly unexpected rage. ‘It’s my fucking night off. I don’t ask you to write a magazine article about faking orgasms when you’re out for the night, do I?’
Ashling froze.
Then Marcus leant his forehead on his hand. ‘Hey, I’m sorry,’ he said wearily. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I see,’ Lisa said, with icy politeness. ‘Yes, I’ll call back.’ Then she slammed down the phone and screamed, ‘Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers!’
Bernard tutted, ‘Language,’ but no one else even blinked.
‘Ronan Keating’s manager,’ Lisa yelled to an uninterested office, ‘is in a fucking meeting. For the quazillionth time. Nearly three weeks to D-Day and we still have no celebrity letter.’
In despair she lay across her phone, then noticed Jack