It Means Mischief [antikvár]

Chapter One The sound of a phone ringing twice woke her, and then there was silence. Deirdre O'Dare squinted at the display on the digital clock beside her bed. It read eight-fifteen. Shit! The alarm wasn't set to go off until a quarter to nine. She rolled on to her other side and curled herself into a foetal position. Perhaps if she pretended she had never woken up she could fool her brain into going back to sleep for another half hour. 'Deirdre? Deirdre, are you there? Can you hear me?' Deirdre sat bolt upright. There was a voice coming from the entrance hall of her apartment. 'Deirdre, it's Nick McCarthy here. I need to talk to you.' Nick McCarthy? What was her stage director doing in her flat? Befuddled with sleep and not sure that she wasn't dreaming all this, Deirdre scrambled out of bed and stood there hesitandy for a minute before teetering towards the door and poking her head cautiously round it. There was no one there, which was just as well because she was stark naked. The green 'in use' light was glowing on the answering machine. Deirdre's early morning brain