Caroline squeezed a little gel onto her fingers and ran them through her short inky-black hair. How ironic to think that she had a better marriage now than she’d had all those years ago when Richard had battered her black and blue, and made her feel completely worthless and utterly unattractive. It was only when she’d found out that he was gay, and she had dragged herself up from the pits of alcoholism, that they had become friends. Those years had been a nightmare she thought she’d never survive. But she had. She’d grown strong and more self-reliant
Why, then, did the knowledge that he was going cause those feared, fluttery panicky little butterflies to dance tangos in her stomach? Would that fear ever leave her? The fear of aloneness. Why was she so terrified that she couldn’t hack it? She’d gone off to Abu Dhabi on her own to work for six months. She’d lived in an apartment on her own for another four until Richard had begged her to come back home, because he was so lonely after his mentor and lover Charles Stokes had died.
Soft-hearted as always, Caroline had done as he’d asked. And they’d lived together since then. It had been a mistake, she reflected ruefully as she sprayed White Linen on her neck and wrists. She’d got used to being with someone once more. She was going to have to face being alone, yet again. It was a daunting prospect. Life alone didn’t seem so bad in your twenties. In your mid-thirties it was little short of scary.
‘Caro, will you fix this damned dickey bow for me.’ Richard knocked perfunctorily on her bedroom door and strode in, the offending article dangling from his fingers.
‘You’d think one of the hundred most influential men in Ireland would surely be able to tie his own bow-tie,’ Caroline said dryly. Her husband had made the much coveted placing in Icon, Ireland’s glossiest of glossy, trendiest of trendy, monthly magazine. A cocktail party was being held in the Clarence in celebration and already there was fierce controversy – among those who took such things seriously – about the inclusions and exclusions. Subscriptions to Icon had already suffered a loss from very miffed personages who had expected to feature and hadn’t. Outraged wives and mistresses had gone batting for excluded spouses and lovers. The feathers were flying among the jet set of the city.
Richard was very pleased at his inclusion. He’d never lost his vanity in such matters. What would everyone think when he put his hugely successful practice on the market? The gossips would have a field day, especially when news of the divorce leaked out. Caroline dreaded it. It had been bad enough when they’d separated the first time. The social columnists had had a ball. She deftly arranged the black silky material into a perfectly shaped bow at Richard’s throat. ‘There. It’s fine.’
‘You know we don’t have to get a divorce if you don’t want to, Caroline.’ Richard took her hand. ‘We can just say we’re separating. I won’t be getting married again,’ he added with a wry smile.
‘I can’t be tied to your apron strings for ever, Richard. It’s better this way. We can both make a fresh start. It’s something I really want to do.’
‘Has it been so awful?’ he asked a little defensively.
‘It’s not ideal, Richard. It’s not a real life. You’ll have your life in Boston. I’ll have my life here and at least we’ll always be friends. Now let’s put our best foot forward and get on with it.’
‘If you say so.’ Richard sighed.
‘I do,’ Caroline said, very firmly.
He held her coat for her and they walked out of the apartment in silence, lost in their own thoughts.
Three
MAGGIE
Maggie Ryan cursed long and loudly as the pot of mushy peas boiled over on the hob. Pressing the save key, she jumped up from her laptop and hurried over to wipe up the offensive green frothy mess.
‘Blast Terry and his mushy peas,’ she muttered crossly as she burned the tip of her finger.
The phone rang. In the background she could hear the children squabbling upstairs. Her head was beginning to pound.
‘Hello?’ Her tone held a trace of impatience.
Her mother’s agitated voice came down the line. ‘Maggie, do you think you could come tomorrow? The parish harvest fête is on and your father’s got gout. I need someone to give him his dinner and tea because I’ll be gone all day.’
Maggie’s jaw dropped. Go to Wicklow for the day? She’d planned to finish chapter ten tomorrow, and besides, the children had swimming in the morning.
‘It’s not really very convenient, Mam. Couldn’t you make any other arrangements?’ she asked, trying to hide her irritation.
‘Don’t you think I would have, if I could. And then I wouldn’t have had to bother you,’ her mother snapped.
Oh no, don’t let her get into a huff. Maggie gave a silent groan. Nelsie’s huffs were legendary.
‘I should have known, of course. You’re always up to your eyes these days now that you’re a famous author.’ The last was said with dripping sarcasm. ‘But I thought you might be able to oblige me. It’s not much I ask of you, God knows.’ Nelsie gave a martyred sniff.
Maggie’s fingers curled in her palms. Were all mothers like this or just hers?
‘Well if you can’t come down I’ll just have to miss the fête and that’s the end of it. I’ll go, Maggie, and not take up any more of your time.’
‘Hold on, Mother,’ Maggie ordered. ‘Look, I’ll give Terry a ring just to make sure he’s got nothing on tomorrow, and I’ll phone you back and make the arrangements.’
‘Sure what would he be doing tomorrow, it’s Saturday? Call me as soon as you can – I need to let Brona Kelly know what time I can do a stall at. Oh and if you’re coming down would you be able to get me a couple of those sponges out of the bakery in Superquinn. They’re very tasty and I could bring them with me for our cup of tea. Thanks, Maggie. I have to go. I see Mrs Keegan coming up the drive. Bye bye.’
Maggie heard the click of the receiver and shook her head as she stared at the phone. Her mother was really something else. The thoughts of going to Superquinn again when she’d only done a big shop there this morning made her want to scream. Superquinn on Friday night was not for the faint-hearted.
Maggie knew full well why her mother wanted Superquinn sponges. They were so tasty, she was going to pass them off as her own. She’d been doing it for years. Every time she came to visit Maggie or Maggie went to visit her, Nelsie always made sure to get a couple of sponges. There was no Superquinn in Wicklow so the Ladies’ Club never knew the difference. And all were agreed that Nelsie McNamara had a very light touch with the sponges, even though she didn’t make them that often.
Maggie dialled her husband’s mobile. It was handier than ringing the office and being put through by his secretary. Maybe going to Wicklow wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Thinking about it, if she brought her laptop with her she could get some work done in peace and quiet. The trip to Wicklow might turn out to be a blessing in disguise after all. The traffic shouldn’t be too bad, she’d be there in little over an hour. She could spend four or five hours writing with no children demanding attention. Her father would be content to watch sport on TV.
‘Where are you?’ she muttered. The phone was ringing away. It would go into divert soon.
‘Yep?’ Terry sounded crusty.
‘Hi, it’s me. I’ve just had a call from Ma. She needs me to go down to Wicklow tomorrow. Dad’s sick and she has to go to the harvest fête. Can you bring the kids swimming in the morning? I’ll cook a lasagne tonight so that all you’ll have to do then is pop it in the microwave tomorrow.’
‘Maggie, I’ve arranged to play golf with John Dolan, he’s a big client. It’s important. And I’ll be taking him to lunch. You’ll have to bring the kids with you.’
‘This is the third Saturday in a row that you’ve been out playing golf all day. It’s not fair, Terry. I’m trying to get a novel written. I have the kids all week and the least you could do is be here at the weekends,’ Maggie protested. If she had to bring her three children to Wicklow with her she’d get
nothing done. And she’d be delayed leaving. That would mean Nelsie would have to wait in for her.
‘Do you think I enjoy going around a golf course listening to John Dolan wittering in my ear?’ Terry asked irascibly. ‘It’s not a day out for me, Maggie. It’s work.’
Maggie had heard that one before.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll see you later. Bye.’ She slammed the phone down. Typical of Terry. She should have known better. How she wished they’d never got back together again after his affair with Ria Kirby. Her husband was a constant source of disappointment to her.
They’d reunited for the sake of the children and initially he’d made an effort, but gradually he’d slipped back into his old selfish ways and Maggie had lost heart.
Was it so much to ask? A bit of support. A sharing of the domestic workload. Taking responsibility for being a parent. Why was it all left to her? Why did Terry not see her as an equal? Why was his career and his well-being more important than hers? Why could he not be more like Luke Reilly?
Maggie sighed. A deep, depressed, weary sigh that came from her core. Watching Devlin and Luke together was a constant reminder of how lacking her own marriage was. She knew she shouldn’t be comparing. Luke and Devlin were still in the early years of their marriage, but from the start of her own she’d always had to suffer Terry putting himself first. Luke always put Devlin first. He treated her as an equal. She was his business partner, not his housekeeper. Maggie felt a surge of anger. That’s all she was to Terry when it boiled right down to it.
She was sick of it, heartily sick of it, but what could she do? The children came first. That’s what being a parent was all about, wasn’t it?
She slumped down onto the chair at the kitchen table. She’d ring her mother in a little while. She wanted to finish the page she’d been working on. The cursor blinked, awaiting her attention. Maggie ran her eye over what she’d just written. Her new novel was called Betrayal. It was written from the heart and from bitter personal experience. It was her third book and she knew without question that it was her best.
The phone shrilled again.
‘Oh for God’s sake!!!’ she exclaimed.
‘Hello?’ This time she knew she sounded downright ratty. She didn’t care. She was half expecting it to be her mother. Checking.
‘Maggie, sorry for disturbing you.’ Marcy Elliot’s crisp tone at the other end of the phone came as a surprise. It was almost five p.m. Why was her editor phoning her so late on a Friday evening?
‘Hi, Marcy. What’s up? You sound as harassed as I feel.’
‘Maggie, you should know that I’m leaving Enterprise Publishing. I’ve handed in my notice, but I’ll be around to tie up loose ends for a week or two. I wanted to tell you myself. I didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else. I’m up to my eyes. I can’t talk to you now. I’ll phone early on Monday to arrange a meeting.’
‘But Marcy, what’s happened? Why?’ Maggie asked aghast.
‘Look Maggie, I really can’t talk. I’ve a few other authors to call. I promise I’ll ring first thing on Monday. We’ll talk then. Bye.’
Maggie stood rooted to the spot and stared at the phone in disbelief. Was she dreaming? Had her editor – one of the most highly regarded in the publishing trade – just told her that she was leaving? It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be true. How would she ever write a book without her? Marcy was her guide, her mentor, her teacher. Had she been head-hunted? That wouldn’t be surprising. She was the best. But Maggie had never for a minute considered that Marcy would leave Enterprise. She was a director, a shareholder. She had enormous clout.
Maggie felt a vague stirring of apprehension. Things didn’t sound too good. Typical of her luck. Just when she needed all the support she could get.
Four
‘Have you booked my flight to Galway on Monday, Liz?’ Devlin asked her PA as she breezed into her office as happy as a lark.
The stylish young woman seated at her computer leaned back in her chair and stretched.
‘I have. You’re on the late afternoon flight. There’s no early morning flight unfortunately so you can’t do it all in the one day, so I’ve booked you into the Great Southern Hotel for the night. A car will meet you at the airport to bring you there, collect you in the morning and drop you down to City Girl. I’ve booked you on the last flight home the following afternoon. The meetings have been arranged to suit your flight schedule.’
‘Great, Liz. Anything I should know about?’
‘Not much going on here. We’ve got a party of twenty coming for the All Day Make-over next Thursday. It’s a corporate thing. That side of business has really taken off,’ Liz remarked.
‘I wish we had rooms for residential nights in Dublin. I’m really looking forward to seeing how it takes off in Galway.’ Devlin flicked through the itinerary for her Galway visit. It was crammed. Architects, builders, landscape gardeners. All with plans for phase two of the Galway City Girl.
Liz pressed a button on her computer. ‘I’m just sending a copy of your itinerary to Anne in Galway. She’ll have everything organized for you. It will be a whole new ball game, Devlin. The first City Girl health farm.’
‘I know. I can’t wait. What a stroke of luck that we got the site next door. Sites are like gold-dust in that part of Galway. There’s apartments going up everywhere. We had to pay through the nose, of course. Luke did a bit of humming and hawing.’ Devlin smiled. ‘But then he had to admit that Galway was doing so well, expansion on that scale was justified.’
‘Just as well you’ve a new accountant on board, too. Poor old Scrooge would never have been able to cope with the amount you’re spending,’ Liz laughed, referring to their former accountant who had left to go to a less stressful position in a knitwear factory.
‘Don’t be nasty,’ Devlin admonished with a grin. ‘Dealing with my accounts takes a real man. Wimps are out. Fortunately Andrew seems to have a bit of get up and go in him. Hopefully he can see the bigger picture.’
‘Just as well,’ murmured Liz wickedly.
Devlin laughed as she strode into her elegant office. She’d had it redecorated recently and she loved its warm tones of honey gold and pale blue. Lightly patterned cream and blue curtains drew the eye to the long sash windows. The pattern, taken up in the luxurious sofa and chairs, gave the impression of an informal sitting-room. Devlin much preferred informality. And as relaxation was what City Girl was all about, she felt strongly that business meetings should be held in a relaxed environment. Vases of fresh flowers, soft pastel silk paintings, and scented candles added to the calming atmosphere.
She pressed a button on a panel on her desk and tranquil and soothing strains of piano and strings filled the room as Philip Chapman’s Keeper of Dreams played softly on her CD.
Devlin sat in her cream leather chair and swivelled until she was facing the long narrow windows that faced out onto St Stephen’s Green. An autumnal squall hurled droplets of rain against the windowpanes and the red-gold leaves of the great oak trees swept in great flurries along the green railings.
Devlin loved looking out on St Stephen’s Green. She enjoyed watching the hustle and bustle of city life beneath her windows. She saw a black, sleek, stretch limo draw up outside the Shelbourne and watched a woman wearing huge dark glasses emerge and hurry inside its portals. Whoever it was would probably grace City Girl with her presence. They’d had many movers and shakers since opening several years ago.
Devlin still found it hard to credit how her idea of placing the most up-market and classy health and leisure centre right in the heart of the city had taken off so successfully. Belfast had worked even better than they’d hoped and there was a waiting list as long as your arm for membership. And now Galway’s expansion was a whole new challenge. Devlin loved a challenge. She was fiercely proud of City Girl. If she hadn’t had it to drive and push her after Lynn’s death she would have sunk into a pit of darkness and depression and might never have emerged.
Her hand hovered over the phone. She was dying to tell Caroline and Maggie. They’d be immensely delighted for her. The thought warmed her. They’d shared so much down the years. It was going to be great to give them this wonderful piece of news. But it wasn’t the same telling them over the phone. She wanted to see the look on their faces and hear the shrieks of delight and have the daylights hugged out of her. Reluctantly she dropped her hand.
But she was dying to tell someone. Devlin tapped her fingers in a drumbeat on the desk. She knew she should tell her mother and father. But memories of the day Lydia Delaney had discovered that her daughter was pregnant outside of marriage still haunted her. That was the day she’d discovered that she was adopted, and Lydia was in fact her aunt. They’d been estranged for years after that. They’d made their peace, thankfully, and had become friends as Lydia had battled alcoholism and won. But still, even now the thought of telling her mother that she was pregnant made her stomach lurch. It was crazy, she knew that, but the residue of that traumatic time still lingered in her psyche and today wasn’t the day for informing her mother she was going to be a grandmother for the second time.
Devlin sighed. She’d wait another while before giving her parents the news. It would have to be a phone call. Lydia and Gerry Delaney were in Brussels for a year. Her father’s promotion in the bank had been on the cards. He was one of their most senior and experienced managers. Now he was part of the team co-ordinating their organization’s strategy for the Euro currency. It had necessitated a move to Belgium for at least a year. Her parents were hugely enjoying living abroad.
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