Mr Right for the Night by Marisa Mackle

woman in Ireland quite as sad as she was? She wondered what Victoria Reilly was up to. No doubt frolicking with fickle friends in a famous hot spot. Consuming champagne from crystal. Goading her friends in her latest Gucci get up. So what? Anna wouldn’t like that kind of lifestyle anyway. It was all so pretentious. She preferred the simpler lifestyle. Like . . . a night in with Grandad, say.
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
    ‘I didn’t go in the end, Mark.’
    ‘Where did you go?’
    ‘Listen, Mark, I wish I had all day to chat but I’m up to my eyes, so I’m putting the phone down now, right?’
    ‘Talk to you later so.’
    ‘Yeah, yeah, bye.’
    She cut him off. God, he’d a bit of a cheek, Anna thought as she made her way over to the checkouts. She should start ringing his office at the IFSC with all kind of obscenities. That would soon put an end to the fun and games!
    The checkout queues were building up. She marched over to prevent two of the gum-chewing staff from describing their hangovers in great detail in front of paying customers. A headache was approaching fast, streaking past all traffic lights and stop signs. But she couldn’t leave the shop floor. It was manic. God, roll on seven o’clock.
    A pram collided with the back of her heels. Ouch! She swung around ready to attack but the worn-out looking woman with the double buggy didn’t even know she’d hit her. Anna hobbled over to the fed-up security guard. ‘Everything in order?’ she checked.
    ‘None of our regulars yet,’ he said with a deadpan face. “Regulars” meant shoplifters. They usually appeared on Saturdays along with the crowds, heading straight for the sportswear. Nightmare stuff. The bell at one of the checkouts rang loudly. A customer was whingeing about being short-changed a fiver. Damn!
    That meant opening the register and checking all sales for the afternoon against cash in the till. It would take at least fifteen minutes. Oh to work in a quiet little library. Or a church. Or in the fields as a goddam shepherd. What was that Jean-Paul Sartre had said? Hell is other people.
     
    ‘Oh Claire, I’m knackered.’ Anna leaned against the communal phone booth in the hallway. How she was going to motivate herself to get upstairs, shower and make up, and face the howling wind, she just didn’t know.
    ‘Get ready, Anna. Seriously, the babysitter is on her way. I’m practically ready to go.’
    ‘Is Simon not babysitting?’
    ‘No, he’ll probably join us later.’
    ‘Oh right,’ Anna said.
    ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’
    ‘Well . . . would Simon not think of going out with some of his own friends? You know . . . like a lads’ night out, since this is supposed to be a girls’ night out?’
    ‘Er . . . er . . .’ Claire couldn’t think of a suitable answer.
    ‘It’s just it might be more craic you know, just us, the girls.’
    ‘I never thought about it like that,’ Claire mumbled, ‘but surely you can’t expect me to behave like a woman on the pull. Simon is well known on the Dublin social scene.’
    ‘I completely understand,’ Anna sounded sympathetic, ‘I wouldn’t dream of asking you to let Simon down. I completely understand how important he is.’
    ‘Yes,’ Claire agreed uncertainly. ‘Oh by the way . . . Jake said he thought you were extremely good looking.’
    ‘Did he?’ Anna was pleased. It was always nice when someone thought you were good looking. Unless of course it was some lecherous drunk in a nightclub when the lights had come on. Or down in the chipper, say. Or when you were walking through Donnybrook at 3 a.m. looking for a taxi. Or if it was a flasher who said it to you. Or two fifteen-year-olds taking the piss. Or when someone told you in a dark laneway and you were on your own. In fact, when you thought about it, there were quite a number of occasions when you could happily live without the compliment.
    Still, it was nice that Jake had noticed. Jake had a nice BMW. It wouldn’t look out