Who's Life is it Anyway

Prologue

“Niamh, you’re going to get whiplash,” said Pierre, reaching over to hold my hand as I turned back from the door.

“I don’t want to miss him when he comes in,” I said, tensely.

“Well then maybe you should stand beside it,” said Pierre sighing. I’d been snapping at him all morning and he’d clearly had enough.

I was about to apologise when I saw Finn pushing the door of the brasserie open. I leapt up and ran over.

“Hi,” I said hugging my younger brother.

“Hey there. So, come on where’s this boyfriend you’ve been so coy about” said Finn looking around the bar. “No, don’t tell me, let me guess.” He scanned the faces in the room and then a smile began to spread over his face.

“Oh yes, very you - blue shirt, sandy hair, big smile,” he said pointing to a jolly looking, round faced guy in the corner.

I shook my head. I was afraid to speak. I felt sick with nerves.

“I was sure it was him,” said Finn. “Ok I give up, point him out.”
“Over there,” I said pointing at Pierre.

Finn squinted. “In the red jumper?” he said sounding surprised as he stared at a middle aged man with glasses in a scarlet sweater.

“No,” I whispered, “There, in the green jumper.”

Finn looked over and then his jaw dropped.

“Oh Jesus, you’ve really done it this time,” he gasped……

Chapter 1

Dublin, September 1998

I heard laughing from behind me. Then a voice said, “This is priceless Tom, listen to this.”

‘The difference between men and women:

I was out for lunch with two male colleagues yesterday. The conversation went as follows.

Male 1: “I can’t believe you ordered the burger. You’re a fat fuck.”

Male 2: “Yeah well I’d rather be fat than an ugly fucker who hasn’t had sex in a year.”

Male1: “I had sex last week.”
Male 2: “Dogs don’t count.”
Male 1: “She wasn’t that bad.”
Male 2: “She looked like Danny De Vito.”

Male 1: “Only smaller.”

They both roared laughing and began to talk about the Manchester United V Chelsea game.

I was gob smacked.

If one of my female colleagues called me a fat bitch for ordering a burger, not only would I never speak to her again, but I would stop eating, become anorexic and die of food deprivation.

If she told me I was ugly, I would enter the witness protection programme where I would undergo an extreme make-over: eyebrow lift, cheek implants, botox, lip plumping and veneers (yes I have thought about it before). A year - and a lot of pain later – I’d come back and confront her – as a stunning supermodel type with pearly white teeth.’

“Niamh, that’s your column he’s reading,” said Emily, a fellow journalist I was having coffee with. “Go over to him.”
“No way,” I said, shrinking back into my chair.

Emily peered over the top of the couch and gasped. “He’s gorgeous, you have to go over.”

I shook my head. I was far too embarrassed to stroll over to some complete stranger and say “hi, I’m the journalist who wrote that.” But before I could stop her, Emily stood up.

“Sorry to interrupt. I couldn’t help overhearing you laughing at that column and I wondered if you’d like to meet the woman who wrote it? She’s right here beside me.”

“I’d love to,” said the voice. He had an English accent.

I blushed and thumped Emily in the leg. “Stop it,” I hissed.

“Come over and join us,” said my ex-friend.

I heard movement and then two men came over and sat down. I stared into my cup, mortified.

“This is Niamh O’Flaherty, columnist extraordinaire,” said Emily.

“Very pleased to meet you,” said my fan proffering a hand. I looked up and froze. In front of me was one of the most handsome men I’d ever seen.

“I’m Pierre and this is Tom,” he said, introducing his not so attractive, older friend.

“Pierre?” said Emily, focussing on the good-looking one. “You don’t sound French.”
“I moved to England when I was ten, so my accent is long gone.” He smiled. Then turning to me he asked, “So, what’s in store for next week’s column?”

“Oh I’m not sure, “I mumbled, trying not to stare at him.

“Maybe you guys can give her some ideas,” said Emily. “Let’s order some coffees and brain storm.”

“I’d love to,” said Tom, “But I have to go. I’ve a lecture in ten minutes. I’m sure Pierre will give you plenty of material. Nice to meet you,” he said and hurried out the door.

“Are you a journalist too?” Pierre asked Emily.
She sighed. “Kind of, I write the obituaries. I’m still waiting for my big break.”

“I’m sure it’ll come soon,” said Pierre.

“What about you?” Emily asked him.

“Nothing as glamorous as Fleet Street, I’m afraid. I’m a boring old lecturer,” he said.

“It doesn’t sound boring at all, it sounds fascinating,” Emily gushed.

“One of my students fell asleep in a lecture today.” He laughed

“She must be short-sighted,” laughed Emily.

“Is your friend OK” Pierre asked her, pointing to me. I was staring at the floor, trying to stop my legs from shaking. I’d never felt such an instant attraction to someone. I was afraid to look up in case it was written all over my face.

“Normally you can’t shut her up. I think she’s annoyed with me because I dragged you over,” Emily admitted.

“I’m not annoyed,” I said, finding my voice. “But I am incredibly embarrassed. I don’t normally go around accosting people who read my column.”

“Well I’m glad you did. I’m a big fan. It never fails to make me laugh.”

“Thanks, it’s really nice of you to say so,” I said, looking up and smiling at him.

“Where do you get the ideas from?”

“To be honest, I spend a lot of time in coffee shops like this one, listening to other people’s conversations.

“Were you listening to mine?”
“No, should I have been?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Tom and I were talking about phonetics, I don’t think even you could make that funny.”

“It’s not actually the subject matter that counts, it’s the way it’s being discussed that can be humorous, “I said, batting my eyelids, just a little.

“Even a conversation about auditory phonetics and speech perception?” he asked, leaning in closer.
“You might have me there,” I said, giving him a flirty raised eyebrow.

“Will you look at the time,” said Emily. “I have to run. I’ll talk to you later Niamh, nice to meet you Pierre,” she said, winking at me as she left.

“I’ve never met a real life columnist before,” said Pierre.

“I hope you’re not going to stalk me.”

“Do you have many stalkers?”
“Tons.”

“Men?”
“Yep”
“Young?”
“And handsome.”
“So I’ve a lot of competition?”
“’fraid so.”

“How do I get to the front of the queue?”
“Flattery, diamonds and furs.”
“Can I start with flattery?”

“Sure.”
“Vous etes tres amusante.”

“What happened to belle?”

“Isn’t funny better than beautiful.”

“Not even close.”

“Men like witty women.”

“As friends.”
“Not necessarily.”

“When was the last time you went out with a woman who looked like a horse but made you laugh.”

“I’m about to.”
“Excuse me!”

“A beautiful, witty colt.”

“You need to work on your technique”

“I’m out of practice.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“In a meaningful relationship?”

“No.”

“Seeing someone casually?”

“No.”

“Gay?”

“No.”

“Pervert?”

“No.”

“Police record?”

“No.”
“So what’s the catch?”

“There is none. Are you always this suspicious?”

“No.”
“So why are you giving me the third degree?”

“Because you’re a thirty something professor who is very easy on the eye, so how come your single?”

“How come you are?”
“How do you know I’m not in an incredible relationship?”

“You wrote about being single last week.”
“Me and my big mouth.”

“It’s serendipity.”

“What is?”
“This. The fact that I happened to be reading your column while you were sitting at the next table and you heard me laugh and we met.”

“It could just be a coincidence.”

“Cynic.”

“Realist”

“Vous etes la plus belle femme du monde.”

“Much better.”

“Thank you.”

“Still room for improvement though.”

“Is there?”
“You could say – ‘vous etes’ the twin of Claudia Schiffer.”

“I prefer Gisele.”

“She’ll do.”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Depends how personal.”
“I think you’ll find it acceptable.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“As a phonetician I’m fascinated by accents and yours is fantastic. You speak English with an English-Irish accent peppered with Irish sayings.”

“That’s because I’m a mongrel.”

“That makes two of us. What’s your excuse?”

“Born and bred in Finchley, North London of Irish parents. I spent my youth constantly surrounded by Irish relatives and family friends. I came to Dublin to study and never went back. You?”

“Born and raised in Paris until I was seven, when we moved to Oxford. Parents are from Martininque. That’s where the tan comes from.”

“I was wondering about that.”
“But too polite to ask.”
“Didn’t want to be politically incorrect.”
“Very thoughtful.”
“I try to be.”

“Dinner?”

“Love to.”

“Eight o’clock in Gatsby’s?”

“Perfect.”
“Excellent.”
“Pierre?”
“Yes.”
“Do I call you African/French?”

“Martinique’s in the Caribbean.”

“Caribbean/French?”

“No, just plain black.”

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