Once in a Lifetime Read Online Free Page A

and make-up, yet remained modest in the diamond department. Ingrid felt that knuckle-duster rings were like push-up bras: you either liked them or you didn’t.
     
    The only interesting thing about nights out schmoozing David’s business acquaintances was that Ingrid ceased to be Ingrid Fitzgerald, the television personality who’d kept her maiden name from her days as a radio producer; she was Ingrid Kenny, David’s wife. And sometimes, just sometimes, that made her deliciously invisible. Like now.
     
    The man seated on her left turned to talk to her.
     
    ‘You’re Mrs Kenny, aren’t you?’ he said. He was sixty something, balding, with a weathered complexion that spoke of many hours spent outdoors, probably on the sea, Ingrid decided. His outfit, a blue blazer with gold buttons, had a hint of ‘Commodore of the Yacht Club’ about it.
     
    ‘Yes,’ said Ingrid gently, sensing that he had no idea who she was professionally. ‘I’m Ingrid, David’s wife.’
     
    ‘Marvellous business,’ the Commodore said, grabbing his glass of red wine. ‘Kenny’s - what a store. I don’t suppose you have time to be involved yourself, do you? I know what you ladies are like; so many other things to do, charities, committees …’ He smiled at her benignly. ‘My wife, Elizabeth - that’s her over there in the red - she’s on four committees.
    I don’t know where she finds the time.’
     
    Elizabeth was a steely-eyed brunette, who was expertly made-up and wore an exotic beaded creation. She was watching Ingrid and her husband with interest. Ingrid reckoned that Elizabeth recognised her from the television and was just as sure that Elizabeth knew the poor old Commodore wouldn’t.
     
    ‘Well, I am involved in some charities,’ Ingrid said to her neighbour. She was a patron of an AIDS charity, on the board of a domestic abuse, and regularly hosted charity balls. ‘But I don’t have that much time, because I work too.’
     
    ‘Oh, really,’ said her neighbour airily, as if the notion of a woman working was highly eccentric and would never catch on. ‘And what is it you do?’
     
    It was moments like these that Ingrid stored up to tell her
    friend, Marcella, whenever Marcella claimed that everyone and their lawyer knew who Ingrid was.
    ‘You’ve such a recognisable face,’ Marcella insisted.
    ‘It doesn’t work that way,’ Ingrid replied. ‘Famous is for film stars and singers, not people like me. People recognise me, they just don’t know where from. They think they must have seen me in the supermarket or something.’
    The downside of her being on television a lot was going into Marks & Spencer’s and nipping up to the underwear department to find several people watching her with fascination as she searched among the briefs, trying to find a five pack of knickers that suited her.
    Anyway, here was this sweet man who clearly had no idea who she was and it was quite nice, although difficult to explain what she did without making it sound as if she was bigheaded about it. She knew that some people in her position might have fixed him with a grim glare and told him she was one of the highest paid broadcasters in the State and could make politicians whimper for their mummies. But Ingrid preferred a low-key approach.
    ‘I work in television,’ she said simply.
    ‘Oh really! Interesting. My daughter worked in television for a while, researching stuff. It was a terrible job, awful pay and, goodness, there was no hope of really climbing the ladder.
    Only a few seem to make it,’ he went on.
    ‘Yes,’ echoed Ingrid, ‘only a few do seem to make it.’
    Ingrid thought of her years climbing the television ladder.
    It had been challenging at times, but she hadn’t had to stiletto anyone in the groin to make it to the top - a fact that many people, interviewing her these days for newspaper profiles, found incredible.
    ‘It must be so much tougher for a woman,’ they said, eager to hear about glass