City Lives

by Patricia Scanlan

  When she awoke the second time, the central heating had kicked in and her apartment felt nice and warm. She liked this apartment, she thought, looking around her bedroom with its pine dressing-table and chest of drawers. A large pine wardrobe was crammed with clothes.

  She padded out to the sitting-room. A plump buttercup-yellow couch with a thin blue stripe, and two large armchairs in the same fabric, dominated the room. A pine dresser, a bookcase, a TV unit and a nest of tables completed the furnishings. Blue-and-yellow patterned curtains hung at the windows, the walls, a pale cream with the tiniest touch of yellow, lent the room a warm glow.

  She had made the place her own with bowls of potpourri and scented candles dotted here and there. Her only ornaments, some cherished pieces of Lladro, were all that she had taken from the apartment in Dublin.

  Nestled in a small alcove off the sitting-room, a round pine table and six chairs made up her dining area. The apartment was small and compact, but Caroline felt more at home here than she ever had in the big penthouse in Clontarf.

  She made herself a cup of coffee and nibbled on a croissant. Later she sat in one of the big comfortable chairs and watched the stunning panorama from her window. She could look across the river to the Claddagh and Galway Bay. She might take up painting in the New Year, it would be a new interest, and she’d never be stuck for views. That was her first New Year’s resolution, she decided.

  She had just had lunch, around two, and was working on some revised costings for staff salaries when the doorbell rang. Caroline was startled. Who on earth would ring her doorbell on New Year’s Eve in Galway?

  She hurried to the intercom, picked it up and pressed the button. The screen blurred into view and to her astonishment she saw Matthew Moran standing outside.

  ‘Matthew!’ she exclaimed in surprise. ‘Come in. I’m the top floor. First door to the right.’

  She was standing with the door open when he loped out of the lift a few moments later. He carried two circular containers. ‘These are for you for your balcony,’ he said.

  ‘Oh!’ She was speechless. The gesture, so unexpected, so thoughtful, so caring, touched the core of her. Caroline was not used to the kindness of men.

  ‘Let’s put them on the balcony,’ Matthew suggested easily.

  ‘Of course.’ Caroline hastened to the French doors to unlock them. Matthew laid the containers onto the tiled balcony.

  ‘These are polyanthus.’ He indicated a round tub edged with delicate yellow and purple plants. ‘The little fellows in the centre are bachelor’s buttons.’ He nodded at the small red, white and blue flowers. ‘And this is a cordyline.’ He placed the larger tub with the spiky green plant in the centre of her balcony. ‘That will make you think that you’re abroad.’ He smiled, and Caroline was struck by how genuine his smile was.

  ‘Thank you very, very much, Matthew.’ She was overwhelmed.

  ‘Not at all. You’re welcome. I planted up a garden for a woman whose husband died, the first year that I was in business. It was the middle of winter. She told me that caring for the shrubs and plants that I put down for her kept her going. The thought of seeing them in flower in the spring was the one thing she focused on to get her through the hard times. I never forgot the excitement of her when she called me to tell me that the first snowdrops were out. So there you go. I’ll pot up a few containers with spring flowers for you, to join these lads,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  ‘Thanks very much. You’re very kind.’ Caroline couldn’t quite take it in.

  ‘I see you’re working,’ he noted as he stepped back into the sitting-room.

  ‘I was just doing a few figures. Putting in the time really,’ Caroline confessed. ‘I hate New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Look on it as just another day,’ Matthew advised. ‘If you’re not too busy I have Goldie down in the car with me. We’re going for a walk. You’re welcome to come.’

  Caroline looked at him, his lean, handsome face and kind blue eyes, and knew that it was no coincidence that Matthew Moran had come into her life. She had just finished reading the book Anam Cara, or Soul Friend, by John O’Donohue, in which he described how two souls who have been looking for each other for eternity can meet in the most commonplace way. And when they meet, there is an instant act of recognition. An ancient knowing. On Christmas Eve when she’d bumped into Matthew she’d felt she knew him.

  Now she was certain of it. She’d met an Anam Cara. A lightness settled on her soul. She felt a lovely tranquillity.

  ‘I’d love to go for a walk,’ Caroline said easily.

  Sarah Yates blinked her eyes and blinked again as the brightness of the setting sun slanted in through the window and made her squint. She lay perfectly still, looking around her, trying to figure out where she was. She was in hospital, not the nursing home. She was in a small cubicle. She could see the nurses at their workstation.

  Sarah felt terribly weak. She heard a nurse wish another nurse a happy New Year.

  New Year! How long had she been here? She was shocked. She tried to remember what had happened to her to cause her to end up in hospital. A distant memory floated closer. Something about Richard. There was something wrong with her son. What was it? Sarah closed her eyes and concentrated hard. Her face contorted with the intensity of trying to remember.

  She opened her eyes in horror. Matron had told her that Richard was dead. And worse than that, he’d committed suicide. Her heart began to pound, a tear trickled down her cheek. Her son, her reason for living, her dearest pride and joy, was dead. She was alone.

  ‘Nurse,’ she called. ‘Nurse!’ But all that came out were strange disconnected guttural sounds. Sarah had lost her speech.

  ‘We’re very antisocial. We could have gone out. We had enough party invitations, God knows.’ Luke smiled down at Devlin, who was resting against him as they lay stretched out on the sofa in front of the fire. The lights from the tree cast a warm, intimate glow.

  Devlin yawned. ‘I’m whacked,’ she murmured.

  ‘It was an early flight home,’ Luke conceded. They had flown to Brussels to Devlin’s parents the day after Stephen’s Day, and stayed a couple of days with them.

  Lydia and Gerry had been delighted to see them. They were ecstatic at the news of Devlin’s pregnancy and had made such a fuss of her, she was quite overwhelmed. It had been a lovely couple of days, but she was glad to be home and looking forward to sleeping in her own bed.

  ‘It was nice that we had the photo to show your parents.’ Luke massaged her shoulders.

  ‘That photo is your pride and joy, isn’t it?’ Devlin turned her head and smiled at him. He was talking about the photo of the baby they’d got at her scan just before Christmas.

  ‘It’s magic.’ Luke kissed the top of her head. ‘It made the baby very real for me.’

  Devlin felt a burst of happiness. It had been truly joyful to see Luke’s reaction to the heartbeat and the sight of their little baby in her womb. Watching him experience the miracle of it all, Devlin had been overcome with emotion and burst into tears.

  ‘What’s wrong? Why are you crying?’ His excitement had turned to concern.

  ‘I’m just crying because I’m so happy. And I’m so glad that you’re the father of my baby, because you are going to be a spectacular father.’ She gulped.

  Luke laughed and put his arms around her. ‘You’re just biased,’ he teased, but he had looked at her with such love in his eyes she’d started bawling again, much to her mortification.

  A fluttery little ripple tickled her stomach. ‘Quick Luke, feel it. The baby’s kicking again,’ she said excitedly, guiding his hand down to her tummy, loving the warmth and strength of his hand against her skin.

  ‘I bet it’s a boy,’ she said. They hadn’t asked to know the baby’s sex. They wanted a surprise.

  ‘I don’t mind what it is. I’m just dying to see it.’ Luke was as excited as a child as he felt his baby’s energetic little kicks.

  ‘We’ve had such a w
onderful year. Haven’t we? As a couple, I mean. I’m not talking about Richard and Ciara Han—’

  ‘Forget her.’ Luke put his hand over her mouth.

  Devlin wriggled free. ‘Imagine her doing a runner, though.’

  Luke shrugged. ‘Are you really surprised?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I suppose going on past behaviour, I’m not,’ Devlin agreed.

  ‘I have a surprise for you.’ Luke looked down at her.

  ‘What?’ Her eyes lit up.

  ‘I’ll tell you at midnight.’

  ‘Midnight!’ Devlin exclaimed. ‘I don’t think I can last that long.’

  She gave a yawn that nearly ended in lockjaw.

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right. I’m bushed myself. Will we go to bed?’ Luke yawned too.

  ‘We’re a disgrace.’ Devlin grinned.

  ‘I know. Imagine going to bed at half ten on a New Year’s Eve. We won’t tell a sinner.’ Luke pushed her up and stood up himself and stretched.

  ‘Am I still going to find out the surprise?’ Devlin demanded.

  ‘Close your eyes. And open your hands and see what God will send you,’ Luke repeated the old childhood rhyme. She stood expectantly like a child, while he reached down behind the cushions of the sofa and produced a small gift-wrapped box and placed it in her cupped hands.

  ‘God, Luke. I didn’t get you a New Year’s Eve present,’ Devlin said in dismay.

  ‘This is just a once-off,’ he said lightly. ‘Go on, open it.’

  Devlin tore the paper off the box. Luke always gave great presents. They were always so thoughtfully chosen.

  She peeled back several layers of tissue paper and gazed in puzzlement at a bunch of keys on a rusty key ring.

  ‘A bunch of keys. You messer, Reilly.’ She laughed at the absurdity of it.

  ‘They’re not any old keys,’ he said indignantly.

  Comprehension dawned. ‘The house? Did we get the house? I thought there were problems.’ Devlin gazed down at the box, stunned.

  ‘There were, but they’ve been sorted. It’s ours. They closed before Christmas but I didn’t tell you until everything was settled. I wanted it to be a surprise.’

  ‘It’s the best surprise I could have. It’s wonderful. We’re going to have the best year ever.’ Devlin flung her arms around Luke’s neck and kissed him joyfully.

  Soft music played, candles flickered, the scent of aromatherapy oils wafted around the luxurious bedroom. It was almost midnight. Ciara knelt over the florid heavyset young man in the bed and massaged his back. He was very rich, she comforted herself, as her hands slid over a fat roll of flesh. Very rich and very available. A very rich, available, fat man. A Greek businessman. And he wanted her.

  Ciara sighed. This wasn’t the way she’d expected to be spending New Year’s Eve. Still, she could be in jail, she told herself briskly as she began to massage the back of Fat Boy’s legs. She called him Fat Boy in her head. It gave her a sense of control.

  She’d stayed with her cousin in Ealing for three nights on her arrival in London and got herself a job and a flat in west London. The beauty salon she worked in was extremely busy. It was like working on a conveyor belt. In – treatment – out, next customer, in – out, all day long. Far from what she was used to. She had no intentions of staying there long. It was much too exhausting. And besides, she was Management.

  She’d met Fat Boy at a wine bar and they’d got talking. He wore gold everywhere. A gold Rolex. Gold medallions, gold signet rings, gold pinkie rings, gold bracelets. He drove a new Mercedes. She was playing hard to get. String him along and he was hooked. He was a damn sight richer than Luke Reilly and Devlin Delaney, Ciara thought disdainfully. He had oil tankers! He was a relative of a big Greek shipping family. He’d shown her a picture of his villa on Rhodes and his house in Athens. And this plush pad was his London home.

  He groaned under her touch. Maybe tonight she should go further, she decided, as she slid her oily hands lightly along his inner thigh. Fat Boy gave a strangled gasp and then a horse-like snort. Ciara smiled. She intended to be Mrs Fat Boy before the New Year was very much older. She’d divorce him after a few years, when she was sure of a decent settlement.

  Maggie sat red-eyed and weary at her computer. Her wrists ached, she had a thumping headache but she didn’t care. Her fingers flew over the keyboard as she wrote the last chapter of Betrayal.

  Terry and the children were watching a blockbuster movie in the sitting-room. She was in the kitchen. It was the quietest New Year’s Eve that she had ever spent. For the last ten years she and Terry had thrown a party for both their families. It had become the norm. ‘Maggie’s Party’.

  On Christmas Eve, fed up to the back teeth with acting happy families, Maggie had informed Terry that she was not having a New Year’s Eve party. They could tell the relations on Christmas Day when they went visiting.

  He’d been horrified.

  ‘But we always have a party. People refuse invitations to other people’s parties to come to ours. We have to have it. It’s expected.’

  ‘Well, I’m fed up of people expecting things of me. You have one if you like. I’m having no hand, act or part in it. If you decide to have one, I’m going to Galway to Caroline.’

  ‘I can’t have a party on my own. It would look very odd. What would I tell people?’

  ‘Tell them the truth. That you’re a shit and our marriage is over. We’re only staying together for the kids,’ Maggie retorted.

  ‘Smart bitch,’ he snapped.

  Maggie ignored him and walked out of the kitchen.

  ‘But why aren’t you having one, Maggie?’ her brother and mother echoed when she told them the news as they gathered in Nelsie’s front parlour for elevenses. A Christmas tradition.

  ‘I have to get my book finished. I’ve missed my deadline. They’re hollering for it,’ Maggie said calmly.

  ‘But what are we going to do for New Year’s Eve?’ her sister-in-law demanded.

  ‘Have one of your own,’ Maggie suggested sweetly. That soon shut her up.

  It had been a difficult Christmas Day for her, but she’d made the effort for the children’s sake and to them it had been Christmas as normal with all the attendant excitement.

  The next few days, apart from family visits, had been quiet. The children were happy to watch TV and play with their Christmas presents. Maggie sat down to some serious work, pushing herself into the early hours to finish her novel. Her commitment to her readers and her pride in her work wouldn’t allow her to give anything less than her best, but there were times when she longed to fling the computer out the window and pack the whole lot in.

  The day after the Al Shariffs left, Marcy had phoned her to tell her that she was with a new publishing company and that when Maggie was free of her current contract, she would be a very welcome addition to their stable of authors.

  Maggie was flattered. Marcy would only poach authors who she considered to be good. Flattered as she was, though, she’d turned down the offer.

  ‘Once I’m finished with Enterprise, I don’t know if I’ll continue writing, Marcy. It’s too much pressure. My kids are losing out. I’m losing out. I might write a book at my own pace and then sign a contract. I don’t know. This book hasn’t been a happy experience at all. That’s not the way it should be. I want to feel the joy of writing again.’

  ‘You will, Maggie, under the hands of a good editor,’ Marcy assured her. Maggie laughed.

  ‘Presumably that’s you?’

  ‘Correct,’ Marcy agreed. ‘I’ll get you back on track.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Marcy. I’ve thought about this long and hard. I need to give the time to my kids instead of brushing them off and telling them to be quiet. It’s wrong. I’m a mother first and a writer second.’

  ‘I’m disappointed to hear you say that,’ Marcy said regretfully. ‘You’re making great strides in your writing career. Your sales are excellent. The only way you can go is up. When you leave Enterpris
e, of course,’ she added acerbically.

  ‘The only “up” place I’ll be going is to the Golden Gates if I don’t quit this stress and get a life, Marcy.’ Maggie laughed. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Do that,’ said her ex-editor glumly.

  Maggie smiled as she typed in the last quotation marks and full stop. She was finished. Finally finished. Enterprise could go whistle for their next one. Although, knowing them, they’d threaten to sue it out of her. Well, they could try, she thought grimly, as she saved her work and began to print out.

  This year was for her children. If she could fit in a few pages every day, fine. If she couldn’t, tough.

  Alma Al Shariff slipped into the dress that she’d worn to that awful party at Devlin’s. It was a pity about the bad memories. But the dress was stunning and she needed to strut her stuff tonight at the college dance. Sulaiman had told her on the plane to New York that he was going to divorce her. He had said it simply and plainly, ‘I’m going to divorce you,’ and then he had picked up his paper and ignored her for the rest of the long-haul flight. Fortunately Mrs Ling and the children had been in the opposite row. They hadn’t heard the pronouncement.

  It was essential that Alma meet a new man in the next couple of weeks. A new rich man with all his faculties in order. If he couldn’t perform, bye bye. Celibacy was not her thing. Nor was being on her own with hardly any money, which was what would happen once Sulaiman divorced her. Alma sighed deeply. She was scared . . . very scared. But she could never let that show. Neediness and fear made men run very fast . . . in the opposite direction. So tonight she was operating on all thrusters. Alma raised her chin, stuck out her boobs, made sure the slit in her skirt was straight against her thigh and prepared to make her entrance.

  Sulaiman Al Shariff downed another whiskey as he waited for his wife to finish preening so they could go to the goddamn faculty party. He was not enjoying America. The pace of life was too fast. The competition was fierce and much was expected of one. He longed to be under the stars in the desert, happy in his own little world. But he would never be happy again. Alma had seen to that. After the divorce came through he’d have to go home to Pakistan so that his mother and sister could look after his children. That would be a big upheaval, one thing in life that Sulaiman hated.