Mr Right All Along

Prologue

There’s never a good day to get fired.

Particularly when it’s all your own fault.

Even if you had secretly felt that your true potential was underused in the Human Resources department of Celtic Concrete and that one of these days you might move on.

And even if you were one of those people for whom change proved very difficult, and even if you’d recently been told by a tarot reader that the cards suggested five and a half years in building materials was probably enough.

Even so, being publicly turfed out on your arse is a shocking and humiliating experience, especially when it’s witnessed by everybody, including William.

Although, looking back, Ally realised it had all happened because of William.

William was the first guy she’d even noticed since splitting from Francis, who everyone had assumed was The One, especially her mum, who was constantly sending her photos of wedding dresses off Pinterest.

William was different, an engineer who worked in IT support.

The moment he’d walked into the coffee room, Ally had accidentally done such a sharp double take she’d practically given herself whiplash and had to mask her embarrassment by massaging her neck vigorously, lamenting to anyone who’d listen that it was a Pilates injury.

Thankfully, nobody gave a hoot, so she’d retreated sheepishly to the corner by the dishwasher, where she could observe him discreetly from behind her mug of Nescafé mild blend.

She noticed he said ‘hundred per cent’ a lot in conversation, in a breathy voice, which made Ally think he might be a little nervous.

Or maybe that was just her. Thankfully, her oversized mug offered her some cover from which to study his body and spot that, under his lightweight, mid-layer fleece, he had a lean, wiry physique – one of those rare people who could actually carry off the bicycle-clips-in-the-office look without looking weird.

Perhaps that was because he wasn’t too self-conscious, she decided.

He was obviously athletic and at ease in his body.

Sod it, the fact that she’d only worn her bright coral Lululemon outfit to watch TV and occasionally hoover or brush the cat needn’t be an issue at all.

If she had a decent incentive to exercise, she could be up there deadlifting weights and circuit training with the best of them.

* * *

Every day for weeks at exactly 10.58 a.m., Ally had slipped into the ladies, whipped out her lip/cheek/eye Miracle Stick in pomegranate glow for a quick lift, given her hair a subtle backcomb to look effortlessly sexy, then carefully timed her coffee break to pass him on the way to the canteen and exchange a cheery good morning.

But what use was that? Bugger all, obviously.

She was getting back nothing but a closed-lips, straight-back smile.

That meant she was stuck firmly in the Greeting-Only Zone.

She had no direct link to William, no friends in the IT department, no one who could make it easy to edge into a conversation. For someone like Crystal, who worked beside Ally in HR and had hair like an American cheerleader and a boob job, that wouldn’t matter a monkey’s.

What would Crystal do in my shoes? she wondered.

Crystal had a neck like a rhino’s rear end and seemed to spend a significant part of her salary on cosmetic dentistry, so she’d most likely flash a toothy smile while leaning across him in her stretchy nylon top and whisper something like, ‘I’m just here whipping a cheeky biccie. ’

Cheeky was Crystal’s favourite word and she used it to minimise whatever ruse she was trying to get away with.

Normally, her carry-on irritated Ally to the point of mild fury, but this situation called for desperate measures and, shameless or not, if it worked, it was worth a try.

There was only one person to ask . . . Rosemarie, her work bestie.

One day they were huddled together at the lunchroom table, munching their Spar cheese and pickle sandwiches after everyone had left.

‘You know that neck thing you did earlier? That wasn’t actually your choice,’ she’d explained. ‘That was hormones. Girl . . . It was your biological clock chiming.’

‘Oh stop. You’re making me sound like an heirloom.’

Rosemarie had worked in the cubicle next to Ally’s for almost as long. They referred to themselves as the twin peaks, on account of there being only a two-month gap between them, making them both thirty-six on their next birthdays. Which wouldn’t be for ages.

Rosemarie read Psychologies magazine, which she carted around in her bag, and had a theory about hormones which was that they operated almost like a self-directed colony who could swarm and surge and mount an attack at any time.

‘Your hormones are giving you an order, OK? Right, so you have to listen. You’ve got to create a situation that he can’t ignore. Guys like him don’t notice “girl signs” – they’re far too subtle – you’ve got to make it so blindingly feckin’ obvious that he can’t miss it.’

‘But Rosie, what if he just isn’t that interested?’

Rosemarie was adamant. ‘I don’t want to hear it. You don’t know that. He doesn’t know that. At work he’s stuck in his left brain. What you need to do is flip him out of it, so he’ll see you differently.’

‘But how in God’s name am I supposed to do that?’

‘With an emergency. I’m telling you, fellas love it when they feel needed.’

She seemed so certain, that Ally immediately felt reassured, even though Rosemarie hadn’t had a love life of her own over the past two years – and that had been with the guy who came to fix her central heating with not too many questions asked.

The following day, Ally put her plan into action.

It was a bit slapdash, but Rosemarie reckoned you could overthink these things and, above all, you should keep it simple.

The plan was as follows: she was to tip a can of strawberry-and-kiwi-flavour Fanta (good and sticky) into her laptop, give it a moment to sink in, then phone IT in a panic.

Half an hour later, to her delight, she spotted William’s wiry frame striding towards her desk.

Oh my God, it was actually happening. The plan had worked.

Her heartbeat increased as though someone had put their foot on the accelerator of a dodgem car, which he didn’t seem to notice, as he eyed the scene with a baffled expression.

‘How in the name of God did you do that?’

His Galway accent made everything he said sound true.

‘I don’t know, I must’ve caught it with my elbow, then . . . flip.’

Flip. God, did she really have to talk to him like a cartoon character. In that moment things could’ve gone either way. Thankfully, his face lit up.

‘Sure, could happen to a bishop. Give it to me here.’

He disassembled the soggy mess and dribbled off towards IT with it, calling back over his shoulder, ‘I’ll have a lash at it and have it back to you tomorrow. Hopefully.’

This sounded unlikely. Nevertheless, true to his word, he’d reappeared late the following afternoon carrying the laptop, to Ally’s barely concealed delight.

She’d worn her one and only AllSaints black top and eyeliner to look cool and sultry, at the same time as giving the impression of not trying too hard.

She’d also grabbed a packet of Haribo Starmix jellies from the newsagents on the corner on the way to work and had them stashed in her drawer, ready to present flirtatiously to him, hoping he wouldn’t notice her sweaty handprint on the bag.

He plopped the laptop on her desk and smiled at her. She could tell he was pleased with himself.

‘Sorted!’

‘Oh, William, that’s amazing, how did you do it?’

Which she’d kind of meant as a rhetorical question but he seemed to take literally.

‘Well, the main thing was that you’d already done a hard shutdown.

Well done, fair play. So, I dismantled it, took out the battery.

Removed your SSD. You’d no external RAM.

Basically, after that, I flushed it with warm water and isopropyl – that’s an alcohol solution to rinse the stickiness .

. . Q-tips to clear the keys, so then I left it upside down for twenty-four hours, and . . .’

Oh God, this was fabulous but way more detail than she could’ve hoped for, bless him. She needed to get him back on track. ‘Speaking of alcohol, could I buy you a drink for all your hard work? I mean, it’s . . . what, quarter to six . . .’

This was all going far too well for jellies – feck that, she could scoff those later in her own time.

Just then, his back pocket had beeped, he’d whipped his phone out and his face had dropped.

‘Aw damn. The server’s down.’

Oh no.

‘But sure, I’ve been in since eight. Let some other fecker do it. I’d murder a pint.’

Hallelujah, she whooped inwardly.

‘Let’s go, then.’

They’d headed down the road to the Cornerstone, an upcycled spit-on-the-floor pub where a mixture of old timers, musicians, hipsters and tourists piled in for spontaneous traditional music sessions.

It was a Wednesday evening and the place was heaving.

Oh. My. God. This was the perfect venue for her first date with William.

Lively, yet romantic. He vanished to the loo as she ordered him a pint and herself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which she sipped while gazing at her reflection in one of the sparkling mirrors, surrounded by the profusion of bottles behind the bar. Gorgeous.

Faced with exactly what she’d dreamed, Ally suddenly felt shy. She took a few sizeable gulps of wine, partly for something to do and before she remembered she’d had nothing to eat since breakfast, apart from two Toffeepops.