Finishing Touches (2 page)

That Cassie! The nerve of her! Sending them an invitation to the launch of her interior design business. A business that was set up with ill-gotten money that by right should have been shared
out among the whole family. If Cassie Jordan thought she was going to worm her way back into their good graces after her outrageous behaviour, she could just think again. What an opportunist Cassie
was. Barbara wouldn’t put it past her sister to have bribed the judge in the court case. And that arrogant Welshman, David Williams, was in cahoots with her.

But
she’d
find a way to deal with Mr Smarty David Williams. The pen was mightier than the sword, as she had found out many times. No better woman for the hatchet job than Barbara
Jordan Murray.

Only recently, hadn’t she reviewed a first novel by a male colleague in a way that had the so-called literati rubbing their hands with glee. Privately, she had enjoyed the book immensely.
But to admit to enjoying a
thriller
would be the kiss of death. People looked up to her. She had to maintain high standards. Her opinions counted for something. A good review from Barbara
Jordan Murray meant high sales. Not that her filleting of Christopher Brand, her colleague, would affect
his
sales. People just went out and bought that pulp! It was galling. Here she was,
writing excellent prose daily, and Christopher Brand had sat down and dashed off a trashy thriller that was number one in the bestsellers and looked like making him undeservedly rich. If only the
publishers to whom she had sent her own novel,
The Fire and the Fury
, would get in touch! They’d had the manuscript for months! Barbara knew it was a literary masterpiece, she just
knew it. Barbara Jordan Murray was a perfect name for a potential Booker Prize winner! And that’s exactly what
The Fire and the Fury
was. David Williams and Christopher Brand could
go take a hike.

Barbara smiled as she pictured herself making her gracious acceptance speech. Kristi Killeen, her archrival in journalism, would be spitting with rage. Kristi was a mere hackette gossip
columnist, Barbara preferred to call herself a ‘diarist.’ She was also editor of the women’s page of
The Irish Mail
! That really stuck in Killeen’s craw!

Another delightful thought struck her. David Williams’s eagerly awaited biography of Margaret Thatcher was due to be published later in the year and she would be waiting! She’d
excoriate
him! No matter how good his book was – and his biographies were usually superb – he was in line for the worst review of his life. What joy! Whoever said revenge was a
dish best served cold knew precisely what he was talking about.

‘David Williams, you’ll get what you deserve,’ she murmured. Cassie would be fit to be tied. She was absolutely crazy about the man. Barbara had to admit he was sexy. Those
eyes! The way they studied you. And that mouth! So firm, yet sensual. Barbara felt a warmth suffuse her. When she needed inspiration for the love scenes in her book, she always pictured David. She
was
the fire
to his
fury
. Desire ripped through her. Angrily, she banished his image from her mind. She couldn’t
stand
David Williams. Cassie Jordan was welcome to
him. He’d be there at the party, to be sure, with his overpowering, disturbing presence. Well, let him. What did she care?
She
wouldn’t be there.

No doubt John and Karen would go to Cassie’s bash. They were the greatest pair of arselickers. Well, Martin and Jean surely wouldn’t go and Irene was in America, so Cassie would just
have to do without most of her family for her big night. She would find that they were not slow about turning their backs on her, just as she had turned her back on them.

A thunderous crash shook the light above her head. ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if I go up to you two, I’ll wallop you with the wooden spoon!’ she yelled. Her threat had the
desired effect. Barbara didn’t believe in corporal punishment as a rule, preferring to reason with her children – that was the ‘in’ thing – but tonight she was in no
humour to reason with anyone. In the background, Ian’s snores reached a climax. Thank God he was tired, she thought wearily, as she typed the last full stop. He wouldn’t be looking for
sex tonight. No doubt David and Cassie were making passionate love somewhere. Well, if Cassie Jordan thought for one minute that Barbara was going to let bygones be bygones she could think
again.

The only thing was that if she went to this launch she’d see David again. It was so long since she’d seen him. She could wear her new Gianni Versace strapless ice-pink number that
had nearly had Kristi Killeen swallowing her false nails in envy when she’d seen it on her at that big charity bash in The Royal Hospital, Kilmainham.

Maybe she’d go; maybe she wouldn’t. She’d see.

Karen Jordan added the hot chocolate to the boiling milk, let it simmer for a minute and poured it into two mugs. She could hear John removing his wellingtons in the back
porch. Excellent timing, she smiled to herself. Her husband had been doing a final check for the night, making sure no foxes, cats or dogs could get at the hens and that the temperatures in the
glasshouses were just right. He had been up since six that morning and she knew he would be tired. She was tired herself.

Her husband arrived in the kitchen, wiping his hands. ‘Saw Cassie earlier on. She was on her way to Malahide,’ he informed her as he kissed her on the cheek, took his mug of steaming
chocolate and followed her into the sitting-room.

‘How is she? All excited, I suppose?’ Karen asked as she cuddled up beside John on the sofa.

‘Yeah, it’s great for her, isn’t it?’ Cassie’s brother smiled down at his wife.

‘If anyone deserves success, she does,’ Karen said reflectively. She really admired her sister-in-law. Cassie had been through the mill these last few years and at last it looked as
though all her hard times were over. Thank God John and she had stood by her all the way. At least they would always have a clear conscience about that. That Barbara and Irene could treat their own
sister the way they had was unbelievable. But then, where money and land were concerned, nothing was sacred. She had seen it in her own family when her Uncle Jerry died and the family had fallen
out over the will. Her father and his brother didn’t speak to each other now.

Karen sighed. The minefield of families was enough to tax even the most diplomatic and tolerant of people. When she looked at her children playing happily together, she often wondered if they
would end up at one another’s throats the way her in-laws and her father and uncle had. It was a depressing thought.

‘I’m looking forward to Cassie’s party. We haven’t had a night out in ages,’ John smiled down at his wife as he settled her more comfortably in the crook of his
arm.

‘I wonder if Barbara will come,’ Karen mused, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

‘Well, if she does, it will be because her nosiness gets the better of her,’ John retorted. There was no love lost between brother and sister. Barbara’s egotism sickened John,
who hadn’t a selfish bone in his body.

‘I don’t think Irene will make the trip, do you?’ Karen stretched luxuriously. This was her favourite time of the day, when the children were fast asleep and she and John could
talk in peace.

‘It might put her out too much. You know Irene,’ John said drily. ‘I wonder if Martin and the martyr will come.’

‘Oh John!’ Karen reproved, giggling at her husband’s description of his sister-in-law, Jean.

‘I’ve just had a baby and I’m
exhausted
.’ John exactly mimicked Jean’s breathless way of speaking. ‘I couldn’t
possibly
go to a launch
unless I have a foreign holiday to get over it.’

Karen gave a hearty chuckle. Just as well they could laugh about their relations. Otherwise they’d go crazy.

‘“Mortin”
– I love the posh way she says Martin – “Mortin, your sister Cassie has invited us to her party, but I don’t think we should grace
her launch with our presence. It would give her actions the seal of approval. And
Finishing Touches
is something we
definitely
don’t approve of. And besides, Barbara
would never speak to me again. Don’t you agree, Mortin?”’ John was in full flow. Jean just begged to be mimicked, with her girlish air that hid a will of iron.

Karen was snorting with laughter. ‘Give over, John. I’m going to spill this chocolate!’

‘Sorry,’ he grinned, taking the mug from her.

Karen grinned back. She was crazy about her big bear of a husband. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ he echoed, bending his head and giving her a long, lingering kiss.

‘Let’s have an early night,’ she suggested, eyes twinkling as she surfaced for air.

‘You wanton, wicked woman . . . Let’s!’

‘I’ll just check the baby,’ Karen murmured as they climbed the stairs, arms entwined. She peeped into the darkened bedroom. Eighteen-month-old Tara lay wide-eyed, smiling up at
her mother. An unmistakable smell reached Karen’s nostrils. ‘Oohh, Tara!’ she groaned, scooping the baby up and heading for the bathroom. John was brushing his teeth.

‘Do you want me to change her?’ John asked, beaming down at his adored daughter.

‘No! You go and warm up the bed for me,’ Karen instructed, whipping off the baby’s nappy.

‘Sure thing, mein boss!’ John departed the bathroom, saluting.

Tara gurgled appreciatively. ‘Ma ma,’ she smiled at her mother and Karen’s heart melted. ‘Da Da, La La.’ Her mother was getting her whole repertoire. La La was
everybody else whose name she couldn’t manage.

‘Go night night for mammy,’ she said sternly, gently laying her daughter in her cot when she was finished. Tara was full of beans; she’d never get her off to sleep. Just for
tonight, she’d give her a bottle to settle her down. She wanted a nice bit of nookey with her husband when they were both in the humour for it. It wasn’t easy with two children and
John’s demanding work.

Swiftly, she prepared a bottle for the baby and settled her down. She brushed her teeth, gave herself a quick wash and flew down the landing to their bedroom. A familiar, rumbling sound
assaulted her ears and she opened the door to find her dearly beloved out for the count, his musical snores raising the rafters.

‘John . . . John!’ she whispered hopefully. Not a stir. She hadn’t the heart to wake him. He worked so hard for his family and he needed his sleep. Just her luck that he had
fallen asleep on her tonight. Sighing deeply, she slipped into her nightdress, slid into bed beside him, switched off the bedside lamp and put her arms around her sleeping husband, murmuring,
‘I’ll get you in the morning.’

‘You can go if you want, Martin. Don’t let
me
stop you,’ Jean Jordan said huffily, as she flipped through the latest issue of
Hello!
and
wished mightily that she had Princess Di’s figure and money.

‘It might be a good time to let bygones be bygones. That’s all I’m saying,’ Martin remarked diffidently, settling into one of the luxurious cane chairs in their
conservatory. The conservatory had cost him an arm and a leg, but Jean hadn’t given him a bit of peace until he had got it done. Now she wanted to get a patio and ornamental pool in the back
garden. Barbara had some sort of gazebo thing and Jean couldn’t bear to be outdone. Each of them was always trying to get one up on the other, despite the fact that they were so friendly, and
it was costing him a fortune. He wasn’t earning big bucks, despite what Jean might think. He was perfectly happy with the house and garden the way they were but when Barbara got something
new, Jean got fidgety. He wanted to go to this do of Cassie’s, to put the past behind him and start afresh. After all, Cassie
was
his sister and he felt that what had happened had
all been a big mistake.

Cassie had spoken to him sharply a couple of times in the past for not doing more about the house for his mother. He had been furious, of course. It was easy for her to talk; she didn’t
have a wife and family to support, and a mother-in-law who clung to them like a leech. Despite the fact that she had two sons of her own, it was to Martin that Jean’s mother turned whenever
she wanted anything done in her house, and she
always
had something that needed doing. She came to dinner every Sunday and they took her shopping every Thursday night. He felt bad about
not having been able to help a bit more at home, but he was permanently up to his eyes and, besides, Jean would have ended up with a face on her if he had spent too long at his ma’s.

‘You’re very forgiving all of a sudden!’ His wife interrupted his musings. ‘Could it be the fact that you’re hoping Cassie might throw a bit of business your way,
now that she’s set up this interior design carry-on?’ Martin was an electrical contractor.

‘Trust you to think of something like that,’ he retorted. ‘Is Barbara going?’ he asked, wishing that Jean would get back to her magazine, so he could have a snooze.
He’d had a hard day at work. Then he’d had to put the kids to bed because Jean had her period and was feeling rotten.
Now
he had to listen to this earbashing. He should have
stayed single!

Jean snorted. ‘Indeed she’s not going. I spoke to her on the phone today and she wouldn’t dream of it. You should know better than to ask.’

‘I was just wondering. You know Barbara . . . she’d go to the opening of an envelope,’ he grinned, amused at his little joke. Jean gave him a withering look.

‘If you want to go to this thing tomorrow night, go! Just don’t expect
me
to come with you, Martin Jordan,’ Jean said furiously, gathering up her
Hello!
and
marching into the lounge, leaving Martin sorry he’d ever mentioned it in the first place. Maybe he
would
go, and he’d bloody well say to his wife that he never criticized her
family the way she criticized his. He had rewired her mother’s home for nothing, and never a word about it, and her bloody brothers were as bad, expecting him to drop everything every time
they needed a new socket put in. Only last week he had spent an entire night putting up wall-lights for one of them. Four hours’ hard work because he’d had to chase walls. And what did
he get for it? Two bloody pints, that’s what. The louser. But dare he say anything to Jean? She’d go into a huff for a week. He was getting a bit sick of it. Well, he was seriously
thinking of going to his sister’s party, and if Jean didn’t like it, she could lump it.