City Lives

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘Ah . . . yes . . . yes of course, darling,’ Jeremy agreed. ‘We’ll be giving Exposé a big push. Dumpbins. Posters. The lot,’ he added loftily.

  ‘Lucky old Exposé,’ Maggie said lightly.

  ‘What . . . what?’ blustered Jeremy, unused to authors being so dismissive about projected sales plans.

  ‘My novel is called Betrayal, Jeremy,’ Maggie said evenly.

  ‘Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Of course, Maggie.’ Jeremy peered over the tops of his bifocals. ‘We have so many books coming out. It’s hard to keep track. Just keep on writing. Have you met Miranda yet? A wonderful girl. Perfect editor for you. Young and with it. Keep you fresh for our younger market. Very important. Very important.’

  ‘Personally I’d have preferred an editor with some experience,’ Maggie said tartly.

  ‘What . . . what! What do you mean by that?’ Jeremy bristled.

  ‘Miranda tells me that this is her first stint in editorial. I would have preferred a more experienced editor,’ Maggie retorted.

  ‘Miranda Quigley has the best credentials. We wouldn’t have taken her on otherwise,’ Claudette interjected coolly before moving towards the door.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Maggie replied noncommittally.

  Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now, now, Maggie. We’ve never let you down. We’ve done very well by you. Everything will be fine. Now we must have a nice long gossipy lunch some day soon. Have you ever dined in Guilbaud’s? Or perhaps Les Frères Jacques? I’ll treat you to something really special,’ he announced expansively.

  ‘I’ve been to both of them. Yes.’ Maggie was damned if she was going to let Jeremy Wilson patronize her. Something really special indeed! As though she were some impressionable greenhorn.

  ‘Good, good. We must arrange it.’ Jeremy wasn’t really listening as he progressed across the foyer in Claudette’s perfumed wake. He never listened to people. Especially people he considered his inferiors. And they were many.

  He threw his conversation at them like pearls before swine, Maggie reflected in amusement. She’d had the ‘Jeremy treatment’ before.

  ‘Miranda is ready to see you now,’ Joan murmured diplomatically.

  ‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’ Maggie arched an eyebrow.

  Joan’s laugh echoed behind her as Maggie pushed through the swing doors to the editorial department. Three doors down to the left she stopped and took a deep breath. Miranda’s name-plate, gleaming, had replaced Marcy’s. Upon seeing it, Maggie felt highly indignant on her former editor’s behalf. Marcy really had been treated badly by the company. Still, that wasn’t the youthful Miranda’s fault, Maggie chided herself. Maybe Miranda would surprise her and turn out to be a superb editor.

  She knocked politely on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ chirruped Miranda gaily.

  Maggie walked in and in spite of herself her jaw sagged slightly at the sight of her new editor.

  Kooky! was the first word that sprang to mind. Miranda looked about sixteen years old. She wore a pink mini. Pink and green striped socks over tights. A green belly top and a long chunky black cardigan. She had a small blue stud in her nose. A mass of black curly hair framed a small heart-shaped face. Wide grey eyes blinked earnestly from behind round silver-framed glasses. She wore blue glitter nail varnish.

  ‘Hiya, Maggie. It’s great to meet you. Sit down.’ Miranda waved airily at the chair in front of her desk.

  ‘Thanks,’ Maggie managed weakly.

  ‘Straight away. Lo-ve what I’ve read so far. Are they new pages I see?’ She pointed to the folder Maggie had laid on the desk.

  ‘It’s fifty new pages,’ Maggie said, pleased at least that her new editor had liked the book so far.

  ‘Wond-er-ful!’ Miranda enthused. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Maggie agreed.

  Miranda picked up the phone and pressed a button. ‘Joan, could you be an ab-so-lute darling and bring us in two coffees, black for me, no sugar. Maggie?’ She beamed across the desk at her.

  ‘Just milk, please,’ Maggie murmured, trying to imagine what Marcy would say if she could see her replacement. The office had been cleared of all her former editor’s personal effects. Miranda had made the place very much her own. Little green china frogs dotted shelves and window-ledges. A huge, spotty, lurid green one held Miranda’s pens on the desk. A variety of trailing ivys overflowed from various brightly coloured pots surrounded by more little frogs.

  ‘I lo-ve frogs,’ Miranda said cheerfully.

  ‘They’re very . . . colourful.’ Maggie gave an inward sigh.

  ‘Now then, Maggie.’ Miranda sat up straight, all business. ‘Have you any idea when you can deliver? I’m getting pressure from above to have manuscripts in on time.’

  ‘Well obviously, I want to finish this as soon as possible. But I do have family commitments. I have three children and it’s difficult to write sometimes.’ Maggie was defensive. She hadn’t expected this. She’d been hoping for some constructive comments on the manuscript. She was well over halfway through it.

  ‘I’m sure it is difficult. Ex-treme-ly so.’ Miranda was full of sympathy. ‘But big boss is putting the pressure on. You know what publishers are like.’

  Big boss can get lost! Maggie thought crossly.

  ‘Have you any suggestions about the manuscript itself?’ She tried to keep her tone light but she was getting more irritated by the minute.

  Joan arrived with coffee.

  ‘Ah . . . you dar-ling!’ Miranda oozed insincere charm.

  ‘Sorry there’s no biscuits,’ Joan apologized to Maggie as she laid the tray on Miranda’s desk. ‘Cutbacks,’ she added caustically, throwing her eyes up to heaven as she left the room.

  ‘Now where were we?’ Miranda ignored the receptionist’s sarcasm.

  ‘The manuscript,’ prompted Maggie as she took a sip of her coffee. It was bitter-tasting. Even the coffee had deteriorated, she thought sourly.

  ‘Oh, yes. Just keep writing, Maggie. It’s fine.’ Miranda gazed at her, wide-eyed.

  ‘No suggestions?’

  ‘Er . . . well maybe you might consider adding a few more sex scenes and er . . . hotting them up a bit. Sex always sells. Don’t forget I was in sales and marketing.’ She gave a tinkly little laugh.

  ‘You’re joking!’ Maggie was affronted.

  ‘Oh . . . er . . . no, actually.’ Miranda was taken aback at Maggie’s tone.

  ‘Miranda. Let’s get one thing straight, here and now. I don’t write sex for the sake of “hotting up” a novel. I write it when it’s part of a character’s storyline and I write it in a manner that is germane to the character and the plot.’ Maggie didn’t try to hide her annoyance.

  ‘Oh . . . of course . . . yes indeed.’ Miranda retreated.

  ‘I was wondering if you think I should develop Clara’s relationship with Matthew. Or should I have it end badly and have her on her own again?’ Maggie persevered.

  ‘Oh ex-cell-ent suggestion.’ Miranda grasped the straw gratefully. ‘Won-der-ful! That’s the way to go. And perhaps Clara could have a few one-night stands,’ she added hopefully.

  Maggie had had enough. It was perfectly clear to her that she was getting nowhere fast.

  ‘Fine, Miranda. I’ll get on it. Thank you for your time.’

  ‘Not at all, Maggie. That’s what I’m here for. Any problems, just buzz me,’ Miranda said earnestly, her little pixie face eager and serious.

  ‘I will,’ Maggie fibbed.

  It wasn’t the poor child’s fault. She thought she could do the job. It obviously suited Jeremy and Claudette’s pocket to employ someone like Miranda. They were probably paying her a pittance, Maggie fumed.

  If she hadn’t seen the chairman and his wife going out, earlier, she would have marched straight upstairs and had it out with the pair of them.

  Marcy was right. Get her contract finished fast and get out. It was obvious the way things were going at Enterprise. Downhill all the way.


  ‘Thanks for the coffee, Joan,’ she said on her way out.

  ‘I bet you need more than a coffee after that editorial session,’ Joan drawled.

  Maggie laughed. What else could she do?

  ‘I’ll see you, Joan.’

  ‘You might. And then again you might not. I’m job-hunting,’ Joan whispered.

  ‘The best of luck, then. Let me know if you’re successful,’ Maggie said encouragingly as she opened the door and made a dash through the rain for the car.

  ‘You’re on your own, Ryan,’ she muttered as she reversed out of the parking space and headed for home. She had the afternoon to herself. The children were invited to a birthday party at MacDonald’s in Phibsboro and were being picked up from school. Maggie was going to make the most of it. She didn’t have to cook a dinner. She was going to order a Chinese for herself. Terry could join her if he wanted to. Tough luck if he was on a diet. Otherwise he could cook for himself. She was going to spend the afternoon writing. And she’d have to trust her own instincts for this book.

  The answering machine’s little red light winked rhythmically at her from the hall table. Maybe it was Devlin or Caroline or someone to lift her spirits, she thought optimistically as she hung up her wet coat. She’d turned her mobile off before she’d gone into Miranda’s office and had forgotten to switch it back on again. She hoped it wasn’t Terry. He always went ballistic when she didn’t have her phone switched on.

  She pressed the play button.

  ‘Hello, Maggie. It’s your mother.’ Nelsie’s disembodied voice filled the hall. ‘I’ve been trying to get you all morning but you’re out gallivantin’.’ Maggie felt her blood pressure rise.

  ‘Gallivanting my hat,’ she snorted. Her mother continued. Nelsie never left a simple message, there was always a saga that would take up at least half the tape and sometimes more.

  Maggie waited for the saga.

  ‘Your father and I are coming to Dublin for the day. We’re going to visit Kitty Bradshaw out in Beaumont. The poor craythur is having a CAT scan and all kinds of tests to see what’s giving her the terrible headaches she’s been having. I hope to God it’s not a tumour or anything like that . . .’

  Maggie threw her eyes up to heaven. Nelsie always went for the worst possible scenario. ‘When they send you to Beaumont it’s serious enough, I was told,’ Nelsie continued cheerfully. ‘Anyway I was wondering if you could put us up for the night because your father wants to go into that medical place on Talbot Street to get one of those backrests for his car and we could do that in the morning before going home. Oh and Maggie, we’ll just have had a light lunch, you know the way your father doesn’t like driving on a full stomach. It makes him drowsy. So would you mind putting our name in the pot when you’re making the dinner. See you later, love. I’m hanging up now.’

  Maggie stared at the answering machine and shook her head in disbelief. Was she the butt of some great cosmic joke? she wondered. Were the gods all up there laughing at her, wondering what little spanners they could throw in the works that constituted her miserable existence?

  ‘I hope you’re all having a bloody good guffaw, because I’m not amused,’ she gritted as she went out to the freezer and took out a freezer bag of lamb pieces. A hotpot would be the handiest thing to prepare and she could have apple crumble for dessert, it was her mother’s favourite.

  Clara and her doomed relationship would have to wait until tomorrow, Maggie thought regretfully as she emptied a dozen potatoes into the sink and started to peel them. If her father was coming to dinner, there could be no skimping on the spuds.

  It was bloody annoying. She’d have to be relatively civil to Terry in front of her parents. They’d been extremely cool with each other since the row. It was easier than having to put on a façade, that was for sure, she reflected, as her knife swiftly deskinned the potatoes.

  Her eyes took on a faraway look. If Clara’s relationship was going to end badly maybe she might just chuck up her job and have a whole new career change. And just when she wasn’t expecting it, Mr Right could come into her life. The least she could do was to give the poor girl a happy ending. And she most emphatically would not be having a few one-night stands, she thought derisively, remembering Miranda’s tacky suggestion.

  As the potatoes were peeled and the carrots and turnips sliced, Maggie plotted her next chapter.

  Twenty-seven

  Devlin gingerly slid her toothbrush into her mouth and gave a quick brush up and down. Sometimes washing her teeth in the morning made her gag.

  She tried not to think about it as she brushed briskly. But it was too late. She retched miserably. Maybe after the third month it would end, Devlin thought hopefully, ever the optimist. Everything was going to end after the third month. And that was coming up soon. The tiredness, the nausea, the craving for coffee. And then she’d sail through her pregnancy, she assured herself. Today the thought of going into the office made her feel tired. And that was most unlike her.

  It was probably psychological, she reflected, as she carefully applied her make-up. She was dreading the result of the surveillance on Ciara Hanlon.

  Devlin had more or less resigned herself to the fact that Ciara was ripping her off in a blatant and shameless manner. Andrew’s surveillance operative had already ascertained that Ciara was working in City Girl on a Sunday.

  The busy manageress had seen five separate clients between ten a.m. and four p.m. Andrew reckoned that because it was Sunday she was charging a minimum of thirty pounds per treatment. That was a cool one hundred and fifty pounds for her pocket. She could be charging forty to fifty pounds for the Repécharge facial, or the full-body aromatherapy massage. It was hard work. Devlin didn’t deny that. Nevertheless, Ciara was using City Girl’s facilities and products. Apart from the financial implications, the loss of trust was what Devlin found most difficult to cope with.

  Having to speak to Ciara on the phone every day as she gave a progress report on the new building was extremely depressing and uncomfortable. Devlin longed to confront the younger woman straight out, but Andrew had cautioned her against it until they had the file ready to present to Ciara.

  Caroline had been as shocked as Devlin, when she’d told her the sorry saga.

  ‘That’s a bummer, Devlin. It’s hard to believe. I always thought Ciara was dead straight. And I liked her.’ Caroline shook her head in disbelief. ‘Unless you take Linda Woods from Belfast and promote Celine Massey to manageress you’re going to have to advertise. You’ll need someone fairly experienced to run the residential complex as well.’

  ‘I don’t want to take Linda from Belfast. She’s doing an excellent job up there and besides, her mother’s recovering from a cancer op. I don’t think she’d be anxious to move yet.’ Devlin sighed.

  ‘What a horrible thing to do. How did she possibly think she could get away with it?’ Caroline wondered aloud. ‘She’s on a very good salary. Her job is topnotch. Maybe she has some financial problems that we don’t know about.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Devlin said with a glimmer of hope. There had to be some reason behind the manageress’s unacceptable behaviour. Maybe Ciara had a good reason for her extracurricular activities.

  She’d mooted the notion to Andrew. The accountant wasn’t inclined to such charitable sentiment.

  ‘We’ll see. She’ll have the chance to explain herself,’ was all he’d say. In the meantime, Devlin had had to deal with Ciara as though everything were normal and the worst thing was that in a couple of days’ time she was going to have to take a trip to Galway to check out the progress on the new residential complex. That was going to be an absolute nightmare. Andrew was adamant that they had a watertight case against Ciara before they called her to account. He was right, Devlin admitted. They couldn’t go flinging accusations around until they were absolutely sure.

  It was distressing, nevertheless.

  Devlin sighed as she squirted some White Linen on her neck and wrists. The joys of
owning your own business! She was lucky to have got this far without too many misfortunes. She traced some lipstick across her lips, blotted it and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked healthy and glowing, not at all like some unfortunate who had just deposited her breakfast down the loo and was suffering from severe nausea.

  Luke was in the bedroom, flicking through papers in his briefcase, when she emerged from the en suite.

  ‘Are you OK? Pity you haven’t got dentures.’ He grinned.

  ‘Smart-ass. If you’re not careful I’ll puke all over you,’ Devlin retorted. ‘Go over to the other side of the bed and help me make it.’

  ‘Yes boss!’ Luke clicked his heels and saluted.

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be tetchy,’ Devlin apologized.

  ‘I’d probably be tetchy too if I was gagging every time I brushed my teeth. You’re forgiven.’ He eyed her quizzically. ‘When are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?’

  ‘There’s nothing on my mind,’ Devlin said lightly as she plumped the pillows and tweaked the sheet. For some reason she’d put off telling Luke about Ciara. She knew it was ridiculous but somehow she felt that she’d made a major error of judgement in promoting and believing in Ciara. He might question her business sense. Basically, her pride was holding her back. She didn’t want to look foolish in her husband’s eyes. His good opinion, particularly of her business acumen, was important to her.

  ‘Devlin, if you’ve nothing on your mind then I’m the Aga Khan. I wish you’d tell me what it is. I’m your husband, don’t forget. Husbands are allowed to share.’

  ‘I know that, Luke.’ Devlin smiled. He knew her so well. She should have realized that she couldn’t keep her worry to herself without him noticing.

  ‘Well then?’

  He came around to her side of the bed and sat down, drawing her down beside him.

  Devlin took a deep breath.

  ‘Ciara Hanlon’s on the make. She’s opening City Girl on Sundays to give treatments and Andrew thinks that she’s using our stock on home visits. We’ve got someone down there compiling a report. We’re going to confront her with it. That’s it in a nutshell.’ She looked at him and shrugged.