Fran liberated a smooth strand of hair which had somehow become all twisted up in the string of pearls she wore and fixed her friend with a stern expression. ‘In my earlier life as an agony aunt on a well-known Dublin radio station,’ she said, ‘I soon learnt that the easiest way to forget a man is to start thinking of him as a mere mortal and not as a god. Debunk the myth, that’s what I say!’
Rosie screwed her nose up. ‘Come again?’
‘Stop making everything about him seem so wonderful and extraordinary—’
‘But it is!’
Fran shook her head. ‘That’s the wrong way to look at it. Try concentrating on all the bad things about him instead!’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, I don’t know the man, so I can’t really help you with that. But instead of describing him as, say, utterly unobtainable, tell yourself that he’s arrogant and distant and nobody in their right mind would want to live with him! Right?’
‘Er, right,’ said Rosie doubtfully.
Fran winced as a silver beaker of what looked and smelt like cough medicine was placed in front of her. She took a tentative sip through the straw and nearly shot off the edge of her seat before a dreamy kind of lethargy began to melt her bones. Still, some light an-aesthetic might be just what Rosie needed.
‘Drink up,’ she instructed and leaned forward eagerly as she began to slide the drink across the table towards Rosie. ‘And tell me what happened. Like—where did you meet him?’
Rosie took a quick slug of the cocktail. ‘Remember when I did that stint as a secretary for Gordon-Browne—that big firm of literary agents? Well, Sam was their star player and we got kind of, you know…involved.’
Fran nodded, thinking how unusually coy Rosie sounded. ‘So how long did it last?’
‘Er, not as long as I would have liked.’
‘And when did it end?’
‘Oh, ages ago now,’ gulped Rosie vaguely. ‘Months and months. Longer, even. Over two years,’ she admitted at last.
‘Two years?’ Fran blinked. ‘But surely you should be getting over it by now?’
‘Why?’ Rosie sniffed. ‘How long did it take you to get over the breakup of your marriage to Sholto?’
‘Oh, no.’ Fran shook her head. ‘We’re here to talk about you, not me. Surely you haven’t been like this since it ended?’
Rosie shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t—but my life has never been the same since Sam. He brought me bad luck. I haven’t been able to settle into another job or another relationship. And now I’ve heard….’ Her voice tailed off into silence.
Fran hoped to high heaven that this man Sam hadn’t done something like announcing his engagement to someone else. That would be hard. Though maybe a brutal demonstration of his love for someone else might be just the cure that Rosie actually needed. ‘Heard what?’ she asked.
‘He’s planning to throw a ball. Which is totally out of character!’
Which immediately told Fran that he must be rich. And well connected. ‘And?’
‘It’s a Valentine’s Day Ball. And I want to be invited,’ said Rosie fiercely.
‘Well, you might be. Don’t you think?’
‘No, I don’t. But I would, wouldn’t I—if you were organizing it! You’d make sure of that!’ Rosie’s eyes took on a hopeful gleam.
Fran shook her head as she saw which way the conversation was heading. ‘Oh, no!’
‘Fran, it’s your job! That’s what you do for a living, you plan people’s parties for them.’
‘Yes, you’re right, I do. But it’s also my livelihood, Rosie, and I have my reputation to think of. Huge, high-profile society balls aren’t really my thing. And I don’t just go around using these events to settle grudges for friends—however much I love them. Staging some kind of Valentine vendetta! Which I presume is what you want me to do. Or is it just an invitation you’re after? You want to dress to kill and then knock his socks off, is that it?’
‘Maybe.’
Fran gave a wistful smile. ‘It won’t work, you know. It never does. If this man Sam has fallen out of love with you—then nothing you can say or do will bring him back. Nothing,’ she emphasised flatly. ‘That’s life, I’m afraid.’