"Yeah, right." She reached up and bit his earlobe.

"Ouch!"

"Race you back."

Marianne packed quietly the next morning and then stood at the foot of the bed watching him as he slept. The long eyelashes on his still boyish face, the curve of his chin, straight nose, plump bottom lip. His arms were spread across the sheets, dark brown nipples like velvet against the light brown skin of his torso, a stretch of gold against the stark white linen. He looked like a G.o.d. She closed her eyes to hold the image, a picture of perfection. He stirred, searching for her in the bed.

"Marie?"

She bent to kiss him.

"I have to go. Snow's nearly melted and the roads are clear. Isabelle and Jack are leaving for Scotland this evening, I need to collect Monty."

"What time is it?"

"Eleven."

"What day is it?"

"Monday."

"s.h.i.t!" He leapt out of bed. "I've three interviews today. Lisa should be here, I should be ready."

"She is here. She called the room, your mobile is switched off. I answered, she thought I was Angelique."

He stepped back out of the bathroom.

"No way." He took her hands. "That's over. We've separated. Seriously, Lisa made a mistake, that's all."

"And the baby? I've heard Angelique's pregnant?" Marianne did not want this conversation now, he had not mentioned it all weekend, she wished she could keep her tirelessly investigative mouth shut.

"I'm not sure about that. She's said she's pregnant, she's said it's mine but she won't even talk to me. So I don't know what to think, and now the gossip columns are speculating and Angelique's PR machine is in full flow. You know what it's like."

"Sure I do." She started towards the door.

"It is over, Marie, believe me please, and I don't know about this, us, but it feels pretty special to me." He was standing before her. He took her hands in his.

"Ryan, it's okay. Really. I had the most lovely time, thank you."

"Oh, so did I, the best of times."

She half-smiled.

"We have each other's personal numbers, we'll stay in touch, see each other again, I do so want to see you again. I'll call, I promise. I know the coming months are going to be busy..."

"I can imagine." She tried not to sound cynical.

"Don't, Marie. This was special. You're special." He held her shoulders, searching her face.

"And so are you. Very," she told him.

They kissed and she left.

He moved to the window where he had waited for her to arrive and watched her go.

She started the car, and looked up. She could just make out his silhouette. She willed coldness into her heart as she gripped the steering wheel. She would not miss him, it was just an affair, a glorious brief encounter, but only that. She would never have her heart broken again. He raised his hand. She turned the wheel; the car park had turned to slush as she drove cautiously away.

Chapter Eighteen .

The Phoenix Fights Back

Jack Buchanan never returned to England. He was taken ill shortly after he and Isabelle had arrived at their holiday home near Kelso and, following a brief stay in Borders General Hospital, died peacefully in his sleep in the croft Isabelle had lovingly restored ahead of his retirement.

Isabelle was stoical as ever when she spoke with Marianne on the telephone; she was having a private burial for Jack and hoped Marianne would stay in touch.

After their conversation, Marianne sat down at George's old desk and wrote out her resignation, in long hand, using her fountain pen. She was not even going to go and clear her desk. She took her laptop, mobile phone, and the letter to the Post Office and mailed the whole lot back to the newspaper's new managing director. She signed the docket for the recorded delivery with a flourish.

A terse finale to her years at the Chronicle, she mused, but the empire she had hoped to one day rule was no more. The ambition which had driven her on had been driven away, and Jack's demise felt like the final nail in the coffin of her own career. She felt no loyalty to Global Communications Inc. Most of her colleagues had left, and when she heard that Paul Osborne had been made editorial director, it came as no surprise at all. Even with the news of Jack's death, a couple of paragraphs on page nine and then a brief, humourless obituary the following day, Paul did not contact her. There had been no communication between them at all and, in spite of everything, this saddened her.

Oonagh, on the other hand, liked to keep in touch with everyone, constantly, and it was while listlessly re-filing her emails on her new laptop, that Marianne received a message from her favourite Irish landlady. She was thrilled to read Oonagh cautiously announce that she had fallen pregnant. This was one conversation Marianne did not want to have via email, she wanted to hear the joy in Oonagh's voice and share in the excitement. The news touched her deeply, she was near to tears as she telephoned her long-distance friend.

Within minutes, Marianne was a.s.suring her everything would work out this time, lecturing her about looking after herself and taking things easy. Oonagh took it in good part; with Padar's help they were going to do everything they could to ensure this pregnancy had a happy outcome; they were both nervously yet deliriously delighted. Then, having discussed the well-being of their mutual acquaintances, Oonagh launched into her unofficial 'Ryan O'Gorman' fan club update: the sets; the stars; the locations; she had all the latest gossip, until finally stopping to draw breath, she said: "He's in England promoting the film at the moment, you know. Have you seen him? Has he been in touch?" She waited, "Marie, are you still there?"

"Sorry Oonagh, I have to go. Other line's ringing. Business. Catch you later."

Marianne put the phone down quickly. She did not want to have to lie, but if she told Oonagh she had seen Ryan, the barrage of questions would have been relentless, and to reveal any detail of their recent rendezvous would be a huge mistake. Marianne did not imagine Oonagh was malicious in anyway, but she also knew Oonagh would find it impossible to keep any detail of her encounter with Ryan, romantic or otherwise, confidential. She would be straight onto Miss MacReady and between them they would be busy broadcasting the 'Romance blooms for super spy star on Innishmahon' story to the world, and although Marianne was bursting to tell somebody, anybody, of her tantalising yet fleeting love affair with currently the most popular film actor in the Universe, her lips were sealed. The ramifications of such a revelation were incalculable.

"It was a glorious fling and everyone should have one, at least once in their lifetime. And in media terms, yes it's a great story; 'Super Spy' in secret love tryst," she explained to Monty, shuddering as she imagined the headlines. "We all know s...o...b..z revelations sell newspapers, but 'great story' though it may be, for whom and for what? For the film, the actor, the movie machine, possibly. For the two individuals involved, definitely not."

She lifted him from where he had nestled at her feet, his favourite spot when she was working or talking on the landline. Checking she had replaced the receiver fully, Marianne noticed she had an answer phone message. She recognised Sophie's number; her scatterbrained friend had been leaving increasingly anxious messages and she had not responded to any of them. She had heard that Jack had died and Marianne was not to go another day without calling her back or she was going to turn up on the doorstep and camp there with her entire family, until Marianne came out of the house to speak to her and at least tell her she was alright.

Marianne sighed and considered a trip to Sophie's the easier option.

They were catching up over a pot of coffee in Sophie's chaotic kitchen, when Jason, her partner, appeared. He kissed Marianne briefly and, taking a c.o.ke from the fridge, turned to look her over properly.

"You look different Marianne. What is it?"

"Slimmer? Fatter? Older?" Sophie offered.

"No, none of those." He strolled over and, taking Marianne's hands, pulled her off the stool, walking around her slowly. "You're all shiny and glowing. There's a rosiness about you. What is it?"

Marianne just blinked at him.

"You've had s.e.x, wild, unbridled, pa.s.sionate s.e.x. I'm right, aren't I?"

Sophie gasped.

"Jason, how rude!" And then turning to Marianne, "G.o.d, he's right, isn't he? You sly fox, not a mention to me. Who? When? What? How many times? Is he single? No he's married. Do we know him? G.o.d Marianne, tell all. I'm getting the wine out."

Marianne shrugged.

"Nothing to tell. Jason's never once been right about me and men. He thought George was just my solicitor until I moved in with him."

Jason shook his head.

"Nah. I'm right. I know I am and he's a bigwig, I'll be bound. Someone you can't tell us about but ties you up and screws you senseless every other weekend."

He winked, pinching her bottom theatrically as he left to attend to their children screaming in another room. Sophie went to close the door, she scanned the kitchen, the chaos, and stopped to slump against the fridge freezer, sighing dramatically.

"I'm so tired, I'm worn to a thread. I want my life back." Sophie was a blatant emotional blackmailer. "You could fill me in a little, just to brighten my day."

"This is your life, there's nothing to have back." Marianne started picking things up, putting them in the dishwasher, drawers, bin. She could hear Jason calming the storm in the sitting room, she spied him through the door, his arms around the children, a rug pulled around them as he started to read a story.

"You're so lucky," she said, handing her friend a clean gla.s.s, "you'll never know how lucky you are."

"If he's right and there is something you are not telling me, you're dead." Sophie said.

"If he's right and I tell you, mouth almighty, we'll both be dead."

The fact that Sophie freelanced for some of the more salacious women's weeklies meant that she really was going to be kept in the dark, whatever she hoped, as she opened the wine. Marianne knew Sophie's ploy and barely touched a drop, until Sophie eventually waved her friend a slurry goodbye, the bottle empty, and she none the wiser.

Keeping her clandestine meeting with Ryan from both Oonagh and Sophie did not rest easy with Marianne. She pulled on pyjamas grumpily, having barely said goodnight to Monty, whose only outing that evening had been a turn around the garden. She was annoyed, irritated with Ryan and angry with herself. She was a fully grown, single woman; she had every right to a s.e.x life, a fleeting affair, a romantic encounter and even a pa.s.sionate coupling in a glamorous location. But not to be able to talk about it, boast about it, revel in it and relive it moment by tantalising moment with another female, who would also have fantasised and longed for such an adventure, well that was the worst of it, that was what really rankled.

She banged about her bedroom, switching things on and off, fiddling with the duvet, books on the bedside table, her spectacles. She finally crawled beneath the sheets and was immediately wide awake. A bad night beckoned. When she finally dropped off, she tossed and turned fitfully. She dreamt of Ryan, she was laughing, falling backwards and, just as her heart started to flutter in fear that she would fall into nothingness, she felt his arms around her, strong and warm as if she was falling into a soft, safe armchair.

She woke, shook her head, took a large slurp of water from her gla.s.s and settled back, turning on her side, closing her eyes tight shut, pushing the images away. Yet, as she drifted off to sleep, he seeped back into her dreams, this time pervading her subconscious with short, vivid recollections of his touch, his lips, his tongue. She woke again, the more she tried to blank him out, the more his memory persisted, lighting her up from inside. She groaned, racked with a longing that glowed like an ember inside her, growing hot and burning until, feeling the heat build in her chest, she woke suddenly, her heart racing, her mouth dry. She glared at the bedside clock. It was two in the morning.

She fell into a restless doze, only to wake again. It was still dark, the skin between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s damp, the flesh between her legs wet with desire. She licked her lips, she could taste him, she could feel his hands sliding down her spine to caress her b.u.t.tocks with b.u.t.terfly strokes and, with her hand against her ear, she could hear him breathing, soft heat from his whispering breath.

"Oh G.o.d," she pleaded, "make it stop." She jumped and sat bolt upright, "Who's that? Who is it?" The sound of her own voice in the darkness had startled her. She snapped on the light and, glancing quickly round the room, stuffed her feet in her slippers and went to the bathroom, staring wide-eyed in the mirror. She shook her head to clear it, but the memory of their pa.s.sion draped her like a cloak, it echoed through her, the longing so raw it was painful. She pushed her shoulders back, strode purposefully to bed and, grabbing the closest tome to hand, read a mind-numbing computer textbook till dawn.

As if to compound her agony, the relentless publicity campaign that is the lifeblood of a global blockbuster, had commenced. Posters of the leading man in various poses were everywhere: bloodied and unshaven toting a rifle; eyes twinkling over a c.o.c.ktail; hands gripping the steering wheel of the latest super car; or bare chested, the blonde curls of a beautiful girl, supine on his shoulder. Every time Marianne flicked on the TV, tuned in the radio, opened a newspaper or magazine, even watched a bus pa.s.s at the bottom of the avenue, Ryan was either on it, in it or being discussed. He pervaded her every waking moment. She was being haunted. Haunted, yet abandoned.

Marianne allowed her gloomy mood to envelop her. She went back to bed, pulling the duvet over her head, blocking out the daylight. Monty snuffled about the kitchen, then popped himself back in his basket. No walk today then. He eyed his lead hanging on the coat hook in the hall and buried his nose in his paws.

Developing the habits of a hermit, Marianne spent the next few months holed up in George's study, working on her project to reunite as many mothers and babies as she could. The files from the so-called charity she had uncovered in her award-winning report had been released, and the notorious Sister Mary May and her a.s.sociates were serving prison sentences. She had hundreds of names and addresses to put on the website in the hope that those who were robbed of their children would come forward and discover they had not died at all. It was a time-consuming and emotionally draining task. She only left her desk to walk Monty or to act as an unpaid babysitter for Sophie and Sharon, deciding that helping them have a social life was a vague counter to having none of her own.

Oonagh kept her appraised of her condition, alternating between emails filled with riotous joy and paranoid anxiety. Ryan, it seemed, had abandoned her totally, despite his promise to stay in touch. For her part, she made no attempt to contact him: pride, foolhardiness, a naive notion it is the female who should be pursued, or just fear of rejection, she did not know which, but what she did know was, she missed him more than she dare admit, especially to herself.

Apart from quietly acknowledging George's anniversary in June with a picnic in the park, where she and Monty had scattered his ashes the year before, the uneventful suburban summer was merging into what looked being an equally dull autumn. Marianne was becoming accustomed to a condition she had never encountered in her entire life boredom. She was arranging knickers in order of wornness, when the land line rang. It was Miss MacReady. Her shrill tone reverberated along the wire.

"Marianne, is that you?" she hissed. She always sounded conspiratorial. "Look, what are you at? Have you a big job on, or what? Oonagh said you've left the newspaper, doing some freelancing. Well, could you consider this, a bit of freelancing for us, here?"

"Er, well, I have quite a bit on." She went quiet.

"Anything that can't be shelved?"

Marianne thought for a minute and then it hit her like a slap in the face. She realised what she had been doing, she had spent the best part of three months waiting for the phone to ring or an email to arrive. She had been waiting to hear from Ryan. This was more than disturbing. This was shocking. It was time to make some life-changing decisions, the rut had deepened, it was time to climb out. She slammed the knicker drawer shut.

The very next day was momentous for two reasons; firstly Marianne put seventy four Oakwood Avenue on the market, barely registering a quiver of regret as the For Sale sign was hammered into the lawn and, secondly, the invitation to the anniversary of the 'Power 2 The People' event arrived. Marianne stared at the white embossed card for some time. Re-named 'The Phoenix Fights Back' the whole event was to be a celebration in defiance of the terrorist attack, which had brought devastation to the capital and sent shock waves around the globe only twelve months before. The initiative would re-launch the worldwide charity the Baroness, who had tragically died in the attack, had founded, raising funds for impoverished people everywhere.

In keeping with the spirit of the re-launch, the survivors of the original event had all been invited as guests of honour. And to avoid sabotage, everything had been planned in secret right up to the invitations being sent out. Marianne was intrigued. She read and re-read the invitation with mounting excitement; all the survivors would have been contacted. Oonagh had told her Ryan was back in England. Would he be there? And if so, would she see him, talk to him, touch him? Or would she blank him, ignore him, pretend they had never met, never kissed, never been lovers?

She started humming Cry Me A River, the theme to the spy film, tapping the invitation along the mantelpiece in time with the tune. Monty, sensing a change of mood, trotted to the door, swishing his tail gently. She smiled at him, grabbing his lead, as she pulled on an ageing gilet. He yapped at her, spinning round like a puppy. She checked her lackl.u.s.tre locks in the mirror, pale face, neglected nails.

"Right, let's get to the salon and book myself in. Time for a bit of a makeover," she told the excited terrier. "A new phase beckons. Who knows, a new me? A new life? A new everything? Let's go, Toto," she said, in her dreadful Wizard of Oz impersonation.

Professionally preened and polished, Marianne donned the dark green velvet gown she had worn that first evening at Meredith Lodge. In a mist of perfume, she rushed out of the house before realising she had left her mobile on the dresser. The taxi driver revved his engine. She jumped in. The abandoned mobile vibrated. The driver was playing a soccer match commentary loudly on the radio. Marianne chewed her manicure all the way there.

Hundreds of people were gathered around the red carpet entrance. The cabbie dropped her as close as he could, having only second-level security clearance.

"You'll be alright, love." He nodded towards the police cordon as she paid him. "I mean, you ain't no celebrity, so you'll get in dead easy, no paparazzi, I mean."

She looked up as a battery of flash bulbs heralded the entrance of yet another A-lister.

She smiled. He was tense, eager to be gone.

"It will be alright tonight."

He shrugged. "It will or it won't. Those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds never give up in my opinion." A goal scored, he tuned the radio, and turned the wheel. "Have a good night, love."

He sped quickly away.

Marianne pulled her hood around her, more against the flash bulbs than the weather. She pa.s.sed through security easily, the invitation had an indelible watermark according her special status as a survivor of the bombing. A tall man in a black tuxedo directed her into the VIP area. She walked straight into Paul Osborne with his latest squeeze; a singer from an all-girl rock band.

"Marianne," he boomed. She immediately noticed his teeth had been fixed. He flashed her a smile, "Stunning as ever."

"Paul," she said coolly, offering her hand.

He introduced the singer, a mere teenager beneath the false eyelashes and spray tan.

"What are you doing now?" he gushed, "working, writing, travelling, what?"

"Resting." She eyed him icily. "Though your career seems to be going from strength to strength."