PROLOGUE

Dominique was trying to decide the best way to position a dozen coloured Chinese Lanterns around the small patio garden when she heard the doorbell ring. Her eyes widened as she glanced at her watch and she hurried through the house, wiping her hands on her black jeans as she walked along the narrow hallway. ‘‘Hi.’ A petite red-head with a dark green baseball cap sitting unsteadily on her unruly curls, looked at her with a hint of curiosity and then smiled. ‘Mizz Delahaye? I’m Lizzie. I’m from the caterers.’ ‘Bang on time,’ said Dominique. ‘I didn’t realise how late it was getting. Everything’s through here.’ She led the way back along the hallway into the small, square kitchen that she’d tidied that morning. Open French doors led to the enclosed patio where she’d been hanging the lanterns. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said as Lizzie looked around with unbridled interest. ‘It’s a bit on the pokey side.’ ‘Don’t worry. There’s not that much stuff. We’ve catered for much bigger events than…’ Lizzie broke off, aware that (a) she could be insulting Dominique by insinuating that her party was too small to worry about; or (b) she could be insulting Dominique by implying that the client herself wasn’t someone who didn’t know all about big events. There was a (c) too, of course, and that was that her boss had given her very strict instructions about how she was to treat Dominique Delahaye and that, by her careless remark, she wasn’t sticking to Ash’s instructions at all. Those instructions, delivered firmly, were to be as professional as possible. To be ultra-polite. To make the delivery and leave. She was not, Ash had warned, to engage the woman in casual conversation or make any comments at all to her that could be construed as interfering or critical or personal in any way whatsoever. ‘We’re not rubber-neckers,’ Ash had reminded Lizzie. ‘We don’t pry into our customer’s private lives. No matter what our own opinions on them might be,’ she added.

‘I’ll be discretion itself,’ Lizzie assured her. ‘But she’s having a party, for heaven’s sake! She must have something to celebrate. I haven’t seen anything on the news, have you? Either about him or about her. I read that she’d gone abroad. That she’d met him somewhere. But that’s obviously all wrong. So why d’you think she’s doing this? Are they right about her having money? Is she back on the social scene again? Or is it a farewell party because she’s leaving the country now?’ Lizzie was almost breathless with excitement. ‘It’s none of our business,’ Ash replied. ‘It’s a private party, she made that perfectly clear. Crystal clear, in fact, so no trying to worm info out of her. We don’t know what her situation is now. If she’s getting back into the whole party scene there could be lots of work for us in the future, but not if we upset her over this. So it’s simply a question of us doing a good job with the minimum of fuss.’ Lizzie assured Ash that she’d be the soul of discretion; although she couldn’t help thinking that her cool, calm and efficient employer would be much better at that. But Ash was working another function that day and couldn’t spare the time for what was just a simple delivery job, no matter how famous (or infamous) client might be. So Lizzie said nothing further to Dominique Delahaye as she continued to transfer the food from the van to the kitchen as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. But she couldn’t help glancing at the woman from time to time and wondering if any or all of the reports about her were true. Ash frequently said that newspapers and magazines only ever gave one side of a story; the side that they thought was the most interesting, or fitted with their own philosophy. In the past, stories about Dominique Delahaye were always about her glittering life, her social standing and her charity work. That had all changed abruptly and the pieces over the last few months had been completely different. But it was a long time now since Lizzie had read anything about their new client in the paper. It was funny, though, she mused, as she plugged in the small wine chiller which the catering company supplied, how normal Dominique Delahaye seemed to be. There was, of course, no real reason that the woman shouldn’t be normal. But when everything you knew about her was thanks to the news reports in the

papers and the TV, you tended to forget that there was a real person underneath. Lizzie couldn’t help wondering what the real Dominique was like. Normal or not, she doubted she’d ever really know.

Dominique hadn’t missed the curiosity in Lizzie’s eyes. She left the younger girl to finish unloading the van and went upstairs, shutting the bedroom door behind her before sitting down on the edge of the double bed. She released her breath slowly and evenly and then pinched the bridge of her nose with the tips of her fingers. She’d been really looking forward to today, looking forward to doing something fun and frivolous for someone she cared about; looking forward to having some good friends, old and new, to the house; but she was feeling suddenly anxious and her anxiety had been ratcheted up by the cheerful caterer’s obvious attempt at nonchalance.

Would there ever be a time, she asked herself, when people stopped looking at her the way Lizzie Horgan had looked at her? With a mixture of sympathy and disdain and unbridled curiosity? Would there ever be a day when someone would meet her and not make snap judgements based on things they had read or heard?

Probably not, she conceded, as she released another slow breath. Probably not and that’s something that I have to live with. Something I have to accept. Something, she reminded herself, that I’ve already accepted because I’m here today holding a party! There was a time when I thought I’d never even be at a party again. She got up from the bed and stretched her arms over her head. She was doing the right thing. And the party was going to be great. It would be an occasion to look forward, not to look back. For everyone concerned.

‘Um, excuse me Mizz Delahaye. Everything’s done now.’ Lizzie’s voice wafted up the stairs. ‘The food’s in the fridge, the ice is in the freezer and the wine is in the chiller. I’ve taken the glasses from the boxes and left them on the table. They’re already washed and I’ve given them a quick wipe too.’

Dominique took another deep breath and ran lightly down the stairs. The caterer was standing in the hallway. ‘Thanks,’ Dominique said. ‘You’ve done a great job. I appreciate it.’

Lizzie beamed at her. She’d thought she’d done a pretty good job too, unloading and storing everything in record time. Nevertheless it was nice to get praise from Dominique Delahaye who had, she knew, once been voted Ireland’s Most Celebrated Hostess. Dazzling Domino, they’d called her at the time. Although, of course, that was before everything had gone totally pear- shaped for her and she’d ended up being called a lot of other things instead. And she was hardly dazzling now, was she, in her black t-shirt and black jeans, her hair held back untidily from her face and streak of dust across her cheek. Although there was still something about her that held your attention, there was no doubt about that. ‘I hope you have a fantastic evening,’ said Lizzie. ‘Housewarming, is it?’ She wished she hadn’t said anything as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Ash would freak if she knew she’d asked a question. But she hadn’t been able to help herself. ‘No.’ Dominique hesitated and then gave Lizzie the ghost of a smile. ‘It’s a divorce party actually.’ ‘Oh.’ Lizzie looked surprised. ‘I didn’t realise. …well, um, I suppose I should probably say congratulations – would that be the right thing under the circumstances?’ ‘It’s not my divorce.’ This tine Dominique’s smile was wider and there was a undercurrent of laughter in her voice. ‘My mistake,’ said Lizzie thinking that the older woman looked a lot less fierce when she smiled. Almost beautiful, actually, with those dark brown eyes softening and two tiny dimples appearing in her cheeks. Nearly like her photographs, in fact. Nearly dazzling after all. ‘That’s OK. Understandable even.’ Dominique still sounded amused. ‘I didn’t know that you’d moved to Dublin.’ Lizzie felt that Dominique’s smile allowed for a certain level of conversation between them despite Ash’s warnings. ‘I didn’t even think you were in Ireland to be honest.’ ‘I never left Ireland,’ Dominique told her gently. ‘No matter what you might have heard. And I’m from Dublin so perhaps it was inevitable I’d end up back here again.’

‘The house in Cork was magnificent though.’ Lizzie filed away the information about Dominique’s residency. ‘And the views were spectacular. I remember the pictures of it in the Hello magazine spread.’ ‘The Curse of Hello,’ said Dominique ruefully and then smiled her wide smile again.

It was nice to see that she could still smile, thought Lizzie. Obviously, in recent times, there hadn’t been much for her to smile about. And then she wondered if the stories that talked about secret trysts and hideaways in the Maldives were true after all and if that was why her client could afford to throw parties and smile so brightly. Keep your head, she told herself. It’s none of your business. Remember what Ash said. Don’t ask unwanted questions.

‘Well, look, have a great divorce party for whoever it is.’ Despite the ban on asking questions she did desperately wanted to know if Dominique had already got a divorce herself. ‘Thank you,’ said Dominique. ‘We’ll do our best. And thank you for the food and the wine and the ice and everything else. If I ever get around to a divorce party for myself I’m sure I’ll be in touch.’

Lizzie blushed. Dominique had known what she wanted to find out and had told her. There was something very controlled about her, Lizzie thought. A wariness too. But she’d probably had to learn that. She remembered a photograph of Dominique in the grounds of her house in Cork, taken with a telephoto lens, in which she hadn’t looked controlled at all. In which she’d clearly been crying. The caption hadn’t been sympathetic. It had said something about Crocodile Tears.

If it was me I don’t think I’d ever be able to face anyone again after all that, Lizzie reckoned. I’d just be to embarrassed.

Dominique didn’t seem to be embarrassed, though. She was looking straight at Lizzie, her brown eyes now steady in a face that was slightly drawn but still attractive despite the fine lines around the edges of her eyes and a definite crease on her brow. Lizzie wondered whether they’d all appeared in the last few months.

In earlier photographs, the ones in the magazines and the social diaries of the newspapers, before the ones that were taken with telephoto lenses, Dominique had never looked anything other than radiant. But those sort of pictures were always retouched, everyone knew that. Nevertheless Lizzie was certain that a couple of years ago Dominique wouldn’t have been seen dead like she was now even if she was just meeting the caterers. Especially if she was just meeting the caterers! It would’ve been unthinkable. All the same, though, there was something captivating about her. An attraction that wasn’t all to do with her slightly angular face and those huge brown eyes.

The Domino Effect. That had been the headline on one of the newspaper articles. But of course they’d only written it then because she was the wife of an influential businessman who’d given her the nickname. Nobody realised the impact that the piece, and its accompanying photograph of Dominique sipping champagne whilst sitting on a marble worktop, would have. Even people who hadn’t read the original article had heard of her afterwards. She’d become a celebrity in her own right, a must-have person at any glittering event and an inspiration to lots of women. What would it be like, Lizzie wondered, to have it all and to lose it? To have made your way to the top only to have it taken away so abruptly? What would it be like, she asked herself, to know that people were talking about you and wondering whether every word from your lips was a tissue of lies, wondering if you knew the truth behind everything that had happened and if you’d been part of it all yourself? She shivered slightly. In the years when she’d read about Dominique Delahaye she’d envied her. Envied her looks and her lifestyle and especially her attractive, successful husband. Everyone had loved her. Everyone had loved him. Everyone had called them the perfect couple. That was then, of course. They weren’t saying that now. Even though, over the last year there’d been even more newsprint than ever devoted to them. Lizzie had read most of it and joined in the gossip. They’d been a couple well worth gossiping about.