ABBY
With the sight and scent of Callum evaporating further from my mind by the hour, I convince myself it was merely the alcohol that lowered my inhibitions. No man could possibly have that effect on me in the real world, no matter how pretty the package.
A cup of chai tea sits on the coffee table in front of me. I close the book I’m reading for the night, tired after a ten-kilometre run this evening. A new message pings on my phone, I squint to read it.
Callum: Hi sexy. I’m emailing you a copy of my schedule, practice and game dates and times. Let me know what suits you. Callum.
I begin typing a response before remembering one of the first rules of advice that I frequently preach to the women of the nation: Do not make yourself too available.
Then again, if we’re only pretending, is that even necessary? Erring on the side of caution, I leave it half an hour. Can’t have him thinking he has me at his beck and call.
Abby: Call me Abby. Thanks for the schedule. We need to pick a date for you to come live on the show so I can promote it.
Callum: Do I really have to do this?
Abby: Do you want the Audi? Not to mention Marcus’s pride?
Callum: Monday week. But one good turn deserves another – You owe me a dinner date. Somewhere public, I’d like to be seen with you.
Abby: After the show. We’ve formalities to negotiate, anyway.
Callum: How do I know you won’t just use me for the interview and ditch me before the wedding?
Abby: You don’t. You’ll have to trust me.
A ripple of raw excitement assaults my abdomen. And it’s not because of the show. It’s been a long time since I’ve had dinner with a man, like a date. The beauty of it is, I can enjoy it for what it is, with the knowledge that it isn’t really a date. It will be good practice, because, after four years, something is awaking in me. I have no intention of being the next notch on Callum’s bedpost, but maybe, just maybe…it’s time to think about dating again. And fake dating Mr Physical Perfection Personified provides the perfect practice run. As long as I don’t do something stupid, like sleep with him.
* * *
‘What have you come up with?’ Candice cut straight to the chase. Today’s T-shirt is black and emblazoned with the statement, Fragile Like A Bomb in silver diamantés.
‘You won’t believe it. I have the whole thing sorted.’ My words trip over each other in excitement. I take a breath and tame several escaping strands of hair back into my trademark work bun.
‘Spill.’ She cocks her head to one side intently.
‘I’ve found a man. He’s only bloody perfect.’ It’s all I can do not to shout it from the rooftops.
‘I have to agree.’ Aoife nods, I updated her with my progress on our morning walk and talk.
‘Well, come on, girls, the suspense is killing me.’ Candice’s knee bounces impatiently in front of her.
‘Callum Connolly.’ His name rolls from my lips like a delicious dessert.
‘You mean, Callum Connolly, the Irish rugby player, associated with a string of beautiful and successful women, yet never spotted with the same one twice?’ Candice checks, covering her mouth in shock.
‘The very same,’ I confirm with a tight smile. Though her statement is true, it grates my nerves.
‘Genius. I knew there was a reason I hired you.’ Candice fist pumps the air, jumping up from her seat in delight. The three of us do a short victory dance around the studio for thirty seconds, before she pauses mid-hip drop.
‘How on earth did you get him to agree? He’s one of the hottest, most masculine guys in the country. He did agree to talk about sex and relationships?’ She’s in awe.
‘Tell her,’ Aoife insists.
‘I bumped into him at Carton House at the weekend…’ I eyeball Aoife, a silent warning but she ploughs on regardless.
‘Tell her the rest.’ Thankfully, I hadn’t mentioned our mutually beneficial deal.
‘He asked me out for a drink. I said no. Then when I thought about it, I agreed to go out with him if he’d come on the show. For some bizarre reason, he took a shine to me in the hotel spa.’ I summarise it as quickly as possible, shrugging it off, though it’s meaningless. They’re going to find out, anyway. If we’re doing the fake dating thing, it’s bound to be in the paper at some point. I make a mental note to myself to keep a little distance from him in front of the press. It’s one thing being romantically associated with him, and an entirely different thing to be slobbering over him like a rabid dog.
