Between You and Me Read online

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,

  characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the

  author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Ebook Published 2013

  by Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  123 Grange Hill, Baldoyle,

  Dublin 13, Ireland

  Email: [email protected]

  © Margaret Scott 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Copyright for typesetting, layout, design, ebook

  © Poolbeg Press Ltd.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 9781781991053

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  www.poolbeg.com

  About the Author

  Margaret Scott is a writer, an accountant and mother to two little girls. She lives in Kildare with her husband Keith Darcy, four dogs, two cats, two donkeys, a pony and a rabbit.

  An avid fan of social media she can be found on Twitter @mgtscott and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/margaretscottauthor.

  This is her first novel.

  Acknowledgements

  Publishing my first novel means the fulfilment of a lifelongambition. But whilst writing is a solitary pursuit, this book simply wouldn’t have happened without the support and friendship of a lot of people.

  I have to thank the Naas Harbour Writers for all their encouragement with the early chapters and for convincing me to give Holly at least some redeeming features.

  Trying to get published in Ireland today is an impossibly daunting task, but Vanessa O’Loughlin of Inkwell Writers helped me believe that dreams can come true. I would not be in this position today but for her untiring support, her inexhaustible knowledge and generous guidance.

  I owe a massive debt of thanks to my agent Ger Nichol of The Book Bureau. We clicked from day one and I will never be able to thank her enough for her help in making this book the best it could be. Her enthusiasm was both exhausting and exhilarating, but at all times inspiring.

  Writers are not always the most emotionally stable of folk (or maybe it’s just this one). I’m not sure if it’s the long hours spent at a desk, the endless search for inspiration, the racking self-doubt or the waiting (oh man, the waiting!). But this gang stuck by me through thick and thin: Anne Marie, Alan, Tracy, Sarah, Elaine, Maria, Becky, Niamh, Dee and anyone else who didn’t avoid me in the last two years.

  I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to Eibhlin of Alice’s Restaurant, Naas, who has let me use her corner table every weekend for years, supplying me with tea and Luka Bloom CDs on demand, ensuring that I can no longer write anything without both . . .

  The long hours at the computer would have been interminable were it not for the joyous distraction of both Twitter and Facebook, so a huge thank-you to anyone who chatted with me through those long, lonely nights. Yes, without you it might have been finished sooner, but there’s no way it would have been as much fun.

  To this end I also have to mention (or I’ll be shot) the best group of female friends a girl could ever have: the Q107 Rollercoaster Mammies. Every last one of the thirty-eight of you is a gift. Inspirational, funny, generous, kind and unfailingly supportive – thank you, thank you, thank you.

  I knew from the age of eight that I wanted to write books. But I’m a bit like Holly that way – if there’s a long way around, I’ll take it. Throughout all those years though, I always had the support of one of the best families in the world. Mammy, thank you for always encouraging us to be creative, be it painting, writing, dressmaking or engineering. We were never allowed to mention the word ‘bored’ in our house growing up, nor did we ever have the time! And thanks to Daddy for always being so proud, no matter what we achieved or what we decided we wanted to do, and for instilling in us all a work ethic that we’d achieve nothing without. And to Michele, Jim and David, no, you were not the inspiration for the family in this book. I promise.

  A special thank-you too to my extended family: Hilda, Billy, Laura, Gemma, Anna, Lucy, Michelle, Matthew, Ben, Emma, Kate, Aoife, Eimear and David. Thank you for stepping in to mind children and for being supportive in every way.

  And to Mairéad and Michael, a very special thank-you for providing me with a husband that is the envy of the parish. I should add that thanks to you I can neither participate in ‘bad husband’ nor ‘annoying in-laws’ conversations, ever.

  When people ask me how I write whilst working full time with two small children, there is no other answer but that I have the best husband in the world. Being friends with a writer is in the ha’penny place to being married to one. This man deserves a medal and I hope he knows that I know that. And how could I not thank my two beautiful, funny girls, Isabelle and Emily. I’d love to say you two haven’t inspired any characters in this book, but I just can’t. You inspire me every day.

  Thank you also to my editor Gaye Shortland, an eagle-eyed, long-suffering genius.

  Thank you to Kathleen Lambe of Stage Door & More. Someday, if it’s the last thing she ever does, I’ll speak as confidently as I write . . .

  Finally a massive thank-you to Paula Campbell of Poolbeg Press for her unfailing knowledge, support, advice and guidance and for saying yes in a summer of turbulence in the world of women’s fiction. I won’t let you down.

  To Mammy & Keith

  The first for having me,

  the second for keeping me . . .

  MarshaG posted today 20.51

  Hi girls,

  Now one of my four-month-old twins is hardly sleeping at all at night. It’s a nightmare and I’m not
sure how much more I can take.

  All advice welcome.

  MG

  Mum2Satan posted today 20.55

  Hi MarshaG

  I feel your pain – how long has it been?

  M2S

  MarshaGposted today 21.02

  Hi Mum2Satan,

  Thanks for your quick response – well, it’s been four nights now . . .

  MG

  Mum2Satan posted today 21.05

  Hi MarshaG

  I haven’t had a full night’s sleep in seventeen months and two days.In answer to your original question, that’s how much you can take. Feel better now?

  M2S

  Chapter 1

  “That brings me to the gravel, Mr Baron.”

  “The what?”

  “The gravel, Mr Baron,” I repeated, while pulling an invoice from the bundle in front of me. “An invoice from Andersons Sand & Gravel, dated 18th July, in the amount of €18,000.”

  To my left I could hear my team leader Oliver Conlon clear his throat uncomfortably, but I ignored him. There wasn’t a sound from my right where Seán, the team junior, seemed suddenly very interested in his biro.

  I tucked a non-existent stray blonde hair behind my ear and waited.

  Ger Baron looked at me blankly across the gargantuan mahogany table, its ostentation matching the faux wood-panelled walls and shelf upon shelf of books that had clearly been bought by the yard at some auction house.

  Something told me that Ger Baron was probably not the reading type.

  “It says it was delivered to the Drunken Duck?” I said.

  He visibly brightened. “Ah yes, I remember now – that was for the smoking area.”

  “The smoking area,” I repeated.

  “Yes,” he said happily.

  I heard Oliver sigh. He had no choice now but to intervene.

  “Eh, that would be a sizeable amount of gravel for a smoking area, Ger,” he said.

  “It’s a sizeable smoking area,” Ger Baron smiled.

  The gall of the man infuriated me but, to be honest, two weeks into this assignment, nothing could surprise me about him anymore.

  Baron Entertainment had started life as two grotty pubs and a nightclub back in the eighties. Now, with a chain of swanky venues dotted all over the city, Ger Baron prided himself on still being a simple working-class soul – a man of the people, albeit one that dripped in designer labels, drove a Porsche and had recently finished building a palatial spread, complete with stud farm, somewhere on the outskirts of North Kildare.

  He had strolled into this meeting with us, his company’s auditors, all five foot two of him, like he hadn’t a care in the world. Now he sat in front of us on what looked scarily like a giant throne, smiling smugly, and I just knew that if I looked under the table I’d see his little legs swinging like those of a bold schoolboy.

  He reminded me of my dad’s barrel-chested Jack Russell terrier that strutted around under the illusion that he was, in fact, a Rottweiler.

  “Right. Well, that’s that then,” said Oliver.

  I looked at him in disbelief. From the outset I’d known that he had a soft spot for Ger Baron. He’d worked on the Baron Entertainment audit for several years now and the two seemed to get on. I also knew that it was Friday evening, we were way over budget on this job and that if we didn’t get it wrapped up soon our manager, Catherine Taylor, was going to blow a fuse.

  “Well, yes, of course,” I glared at him, “if you are happy that the smoking area of a pub on Westmoreland Street would require the same amount of gravel as, let me see . . .” I paused as if trying to think, “the four-hundred-metre driveway and courtyard of a large country house . . .”

  “Fine, yes, I’m happy with that.” Ger Baron hastily pushed his chair back from the table.

  “However,” I continued, looking down at my list, “I’m afraid I still have a few other questions.”

  Oliver sighed. “Oh, right. Sorry, Ger, I’m sure this won’t take long.”

  “Ask me anything – I mean, you know me by now, Ollie – an open book.” Ger Baron threw a disparaging glance in my direction. “Obviously, there are a few new faces on your team this year and we can’t expect them to be familiar with the way we do business.”

  The fact that I clearly wasn’t his favourite person didn’t bother me in the slightest. If popularity was important to me, I’d never have chosen auditing as a profession. As an auditor you can do no right. Clients see you as an unnecessary expense; their staff see you as an annoying interruption in their daily lives. The better you are at your job, the more they hate you.

  And I was very good at my job.

  “Great, let’s talk about the hot tub then,” I said pleasantly.

  Oliver spluttered and even Ger had the good grace to look sheepish.

  “Ah yes, well now, that might be a mistake alright.” He chuckled in obvious forced amusement. “I’ll have to get Ellen to check how that one got mixed up with the pub invoices.” He smiled at his insipid bookkeeper who was by now looking very uncomfortable as she crouched in her chair beside him.

  “Well, it was in the same bundle as the ones I have here for, let me see . . .” I shuffled through my pages, quite unnecessarily as I knew this list off by heart, “a four-poster bed, a chaise longue, a life-size self-portrait and, em . . .” I paused again, this time for pure effect, “two gold eagles and pillar mounts.”

  At this, any pretence at amusement faded, and he looked at me with thinly veiled hatred.

  “I said we’ll look into it,” he spat.

  There was silence as we eyeballed each other across the table.

  But this paragon of nouveau riche-ness didn’t faze me. Oh no, I’d known what was ahead of me as I got ready that morning so I’d dressed for the occasion. As a result, I could have taken that chancer’s eye out with just one casual flick of an Armani lapel and then finished the job with a poke from a carefully applied Louboutin heel.He wasn’t to know that I clad head to toe in purchases from the Niemen Marcus Fall ’09 sale.

  “Right so,” Oliver said, “now that we have that mis-understanding sorted –”

  “There’s another matter, of a more serious nature,” I interrupted.

  My gaze hadn’t shifted.

  Neither had Ger Baron’s.

  Not even the loud click of Seán’s biro broke the tension. He mumbled an apology but he needn’t have bothered.

  All eyes were on me.

  “I’d like to discuss the seventh till at the Drunken Duck.”

  “You what?” Ger Baron sat back.

  “I said, I’d like –”

  “I know what you said,” he leaned forward again, “and I’m saying I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Allow me to explain.” I reached once again into my briefcase. “I have here an analysis of the till rolls that were supplied to me by Ellen. An analysis of the six tills listed at the Drunken Duck.”

  “So what?”

  “So where are the till rolls for the seventh till?”

  “What fuckin’ seventh till?”

  “The seventh one I counted last Saturday night.”

  There was an audible gasp around the table. For a brief moment I thought Seán was going to fall off his chair.

  “Well, you must have counted fuckin’ wrong!” He leaned forward again, his eyes narrowed to little slits.

  “D’you know, I don’t think I did,” I answered calmly. “You see, I was out with a few friends. We started off in the Drunken Duck, then went on to the Strawberry Bed, next the Liffey Arms and lastly Old Connell House – and guess what? In each of them I counted one extra till.”

  “You accountants really know how to tear up the town,” he sneered. “Had you really nothing better to be doing on a Saturday night than going around pubs counting bleedin’ cash registers?”

  “Mr Baron, I think you’re missing the point. If I was able to spot something like that, so could the Revenue, and the repercussions for both you an
d your shareholders would be huge.”

  “Fuck the Revenue!” he spat. “They get enough off me. And you want me to give them more?”

  “You have to understand – it’s nothing to do with what I want. All I’m trying to do is warn you that –”

  “No, all you’re tryin’ to do is ruin me. I’ve met your sort before, and I’m telling you what I told them. Fuck off and work for the Revenue if you’re that fuckin’ worried about them!”

  At this, Seán erupted into a volley of nervous coughing that threatened to choke him and the insipid Ellen had to assist him from the room.

  “I think maybe that’s enough for Mr Baron to think about for today,” Oliver said, valiantly trying to call some order to the meeting. “Why don’t we meet again early next week?”

  “I’d rather finish this list if you don’t mind.”

  “Holly!” Oliver said sharply.

  I hesitated, then handed Ger Baron the sheet of paper.

  “This outlines the queries we’ve covered today, and the ones we didn’t get to.” I shot Oliver a dirty look. “I’ll be back on Monday morning, 9a.m. sharp, to see if we can come up with some mutually acceptable answers.”

  “Well, I suggest you stay out of my pubs in the meantime,” he snapped.

  “Oh don’t worry, Mr Baron – I’ve a quiet one planned for this weekend.”

  I gathered my stuff together, rose to my feet and left the room.

  When Oliver joined me and Seán on the footpath outside I was too livid to look at him.

  “Right,” he said, “get in the car, the two of you.”

  “I’ll get a taxi,” I snapped.

  “Just get in the bloody car, Holly.” He sounded weary.

  Seán slid into the back seat of Oliver’s Audi, leaving me with no choice but to get in the front.

  For several minutes there wasn’t a sound but the drone of the engine and Oliver’s somewhat violent gear-changes.

  “You know that Catherine is going to kill you,” he said eventually.