'And you. Please, come in.'
'You have a lovely home,' Angela remarked, following her inside.
'Isn't it wonderful?' Walter agreed. 'Wait till you see the garden — it's to die for.'
'Dinner will be ready soon,' Dana told them. 'Let's have a drink in the conservatory first.' She and Walter had discussed having some champagne on ice but, given Gretta's mercurial moods, they decided against it. Instead the drinks cabinet was filled with every kind of soft drink, water, a range of spirits and a very expensive dry burgundy. 'Wally, would you do the honours?' Dana asked, as she sat down on one of the large sofas next to Gretta.
He clicked his heels and bowed. 'I'd be delighted. What will it be, ladies? Can I tempt you with a cocktail, perhaps?'
Gretta fanned herself wearily. 'I'd kill for a Bloody Mary. Those damn airports exhaust me. Why does everything have to take so damn long?'
'Bloody Mary it is. Angela?'
'Yes, why not?'
Dana and Wally exchanged a look of pure relief.
'I think I'll have one too,' Dana said.
'We all will,' Walter announced.
'I'm sure all the ingredients are there, Walter, but you'll have to go out to the kitchen for the tomato juice.'
'No problem.' Walter skipped off to do her bidding.
'So, tell me, Dana. How are you?' Gretta asked when he had gone.
She was attempting to look sincere and empathetic, though it didn't come easy. Dana suppressed a smile and played along. 'I'm okay, Gretta. It was difficult at first. When Gus walked out I was knocked for six.'
'I can imagine.' Gretta patted her hand awkwardly.
'But now that I've had time to get used to being on my own again, well -' she paused and smiled — 'I'm quite enjoying it.'
'Really?' Gretta didn't look convinced.
'Yeah. Though in a way I've turned into a bit of a recluse. I'm just living to write and writing to live.' She laughed. 'A publisher's dream, eh?'
'Indeed.' Gretta was trying to hide her surprise. 'But a little bird tells me that you haven't been home alone every night.'
Dana put her hands to her face to cover a guilty smile — who knew she could be such an actress? — and simpered, 'I admit it, I've had a few nights out, but then, you've got to wash that man right out of your hair, right?' Okay, now where did that come from?
'You are absolutely right,' Angela said emphatically. 'No man is worth pining over. You just have to move on.' The normally cool editor was suddenly flushed and quite fierce.
'Angela recently divorced,' Gretta explained.
'I'm so sorry,' Dana said.
Angela waved away her sympathies. 'Don't be, I'm better off without him.'
'Here we are, ladies.' Walter arrived back, brandishing a carton of tomato juice, and within minutes he had mixed four potent cocktails. After he'd served the three women, he raised his glass. 'To The Mile High Club!'
Dana winced. That was pushing it a bit. She smiled faintly as she realized both women were looking at her and raising their glasses expectantly. 'The Mile High Club,' she echoed.
Angela walked to the conservatory doors and looked out into the garden. 'Aren't you lucky having such a large garden? It's beautiful.'
'It was one of the main reasons we bought the place,' Dana said, standing up. 'Let me show you around.'
'You do that.' Walter took her place on the sofa. 'It will give Gretta and me a chance to chat.'
Gretta opened her mouth to protest but Dana hurried Angela outside before she could say a word. The editor frowned at Walter. 'I came here to talk to Dana.'
'We have plenty of time,' he assured her. 'I just wanted to have a quick word entre nous. As you know, Dana hasn't let anyone see this manuscript—'
'Don't I know it?' Gretta grumbled.
'-but this afternoon I had a sneak preview.' He clapped his hands excitedly and thought of the pathetic things he had to do in this job. 'I really think it might be her best yet!'
Gretta's painted-on eyebrows disappeared into her lacquered hair. 'Yeah?'
Walter nodded emphatically. 'It's got it all. Suspense, mystery, humour and -' he rolled his eyes in ecstasy — 'it is really hot. And, Gretta, I know there are a lot of new kids on the block. But not many authors can do sex with taste.' He allowed a respectful silence so that they could both take a moment to appreciate Dana's genius.
'Can I have a look?' the editor whispered, hooked.
Walter shook his head and looked nervously towards the garden. 'She'd kill me.'
Gretta's eyes narrowed suspiciously. 'Why? I'm her editor. I'm always the first to read her manuscripts.'
Walter sighed. 'Well, I'm embarrassed to admit this, Gretta, but...'
She stared at him. 'She doesn't know you've read it, does she?'
He looked shamefaced. 'It was just a couple of chapters. I couldn't help myself. She left me in her office alone while she went to talk to her housekeeper and ...' He sighed again. 'I'm only human.'
Gretta nodded in a rare moment of solidarity. 'I wouldn't have been able to resist either.'
'Really? Oh, thank you. That makes me feel much better.'
'Now I really can't wait to read it,' Gretta said, taking a long slug of her drink.
'I hope I've put your mind at rest,' Walter said. 'And that you will bear with us and give Dana just a little more time.'
Gretta's eyes narrowed. 'How much more?'
'Six weeks?' he ventured.
Her eyes widened. 'Oh, you cannot be serious!'
'If you want The Mile High Club to be THE book, the one to launch both Passion and Dana De Lacey with a bang, isn't it worth it?'
A look of uncertainty crossed Gretta's face. 'I'll have to talk to Angela.'
'I'm sure you can persuade her.'
'Six weeks, no more,' Gretta warned.
'You won't be disappointed, Gretta,' Walter said, desperately hoping he was right. If Dana didn't deliver, it would leave his reputation in shreds.
There was a knock on the door and Iris announced that dinner was served.
'I'll go and find Dana and Angela,' Walter said, glad of the opportunity to escape. When he got outside, he paused to catch his breath. He really was getting too old for this game.
The mood around the dinner table was light and relaxed and Dana shot Walter a quizzical look. He smiled back and topped up their glasses. 'Not too much for the author,' he teased Dana. 'We want you tap-tap-tapping away first thing in the morning.'
'Do you prefer to work in the mornings?' Angela asked, as she speared a piece of asparagus with her fork.
'I used to, but recently I've taken to working in the evenings.' Dana smiled sadly. 'It passes the time.'
An awkward silence followed but Walter jumped in to fill it. 'Vary it,' he suggested. 'It's not healthy to stay in every night and there's no reason why you shouldn't be out there socializing, you're a free woman.'
'Technically I'm not,' she pointed out with a frown. 'Maybe I should do something about that.'
Walter smiled though he was gritting his teeth. 'I think you should wait, Dana. You don't want to rush into anything. You have enough on your plate just getting the book finished.'
'Yes, and we are under pressure,' Gretta added. Dana opened her mouth to explain, but Gretta's smile was tolerant. 'It's okay, Walter has explained everything.'
'He has?'
She nodded. 'Angela and I will need to talk, but I'm sure we can work something out.'
Dana looked blank. 'Oh, that's great. Marvellous.'
Dana lapsed into silence as the conversation turned from her to more general gossip. Wally was at his best, enthralling the two women with tales about other people in the industry.
'I can't believe that,' Angela gasped, when he told her of one agent's antics at a dinner the previous week.
He pointed to his own eyes. 'My sources are very reliable.'
Dana smiled absently, glad that she didn't have to contribute. She was conscious, though, that the shrewd UK
editor was shooting her speculative looks. She looked at the almost untouched plate of delicious food in front of her and felt like throwing up. How was she going to get through the remainder of this evening? She forced herself to eat, knowing that she'd get an earful from Wally later if she didn't play her part. Not long now, at least. Gretta always went to bed early and it was after nine now. She was grateful for that. She hated all of this lying and subterfuge. In any case, Peyton Publishing had made a lot of money off her back. It wouldn't kill them if, for once, she delivered late. But would she be able to deliver at all? And though she'd explained this to Wally, he hadn't listened. He had cobbled together a range of notes and suggestions this afternoon and he thought that was that. But that wasn't the way she worked. Either the story — and yes, it wasn't just sex and romance, there was always a story too — was in her head or it wasn't. At the moment, she knew that it wasn't. If she finished this book, the first third would be vibrant and pacy while the rest was wooden and lifeless. Gretta would be furious when she finally read it.
'It will be fine,' Walter had said, overriding her protests.
Who was he trying to convince, she wondered, watching him now as he entertained the two women. He was a force to be reckoned with when he pulled out all the stops. He'd certainly done that today. If her contract with Peyton wasn't renewed, of course, it would mean a large hole in his income over the next couple of years. But she knew that he was just as worried about her as he was about his income. He was a kind man and a good friend. It wasn't fair that he would suffer because of her. She reached for her glass at the thought of this extra pressure. How wonderful it would be if she could just disappear. Get away from the job, her life — all of it.
'Dana?' Angela was obviously waiting for a response to a question that Dana hadn't even heard.
Walter whooped delightedly. 'She's gone again! You were off in you own little fictional world again, weren't you?'
'Yes,' Dana lied. 'I'm so sorry. How rude of me.'
'Honey, don't apologize,' Gretta said warmly. 'You're making three people very happy.'
'It's so exciting to think that you're creating as we sit here eating dinner,' Angela marvelled. 'Does that happen often?'
Dana shrugged. 'Sometimes. When I really get my teeth into something, I find it hard to concentrate on anything else.'
'And long may that continue,' Wally said, slurring slightly.
'We should get going.' Angela looked at Gretta, who was drooping in her chair. 'We have an early start tomorrow.'
Dana looked around the table at the remains of their desserts and coffees, and realized just how long her mind had been wandering. 'Where are you staying?' Dana asked as Wally helped Gretta to her feet.
'That new uber-modern hotel out at the airport,' Angela replied.
'Me too,' Wally said, punching a number into his phone. 'I'll call a cab and we can share.'
'Thank you so much for coming to see me,' Dana told the two editors as he went outside to make the call. 'I'm sorry for not being very good company.'
'Don't apologize.' Angela kissed her on both cheeks. 'I've really enjoyed my evening.'
Gretta grinned drunkenly. 'I knew you wouldn't let me down,' she said, hugging the author as if they were bosom buddies.
Dana patted her back distractedly and cursed Wally. What had he told Gretta? Why had she let him talk her into this ridiculous subterfuge? It could only end in tears.
The man in question tripped back into the room, his eyes bright and his face flushed. That was due in part to wine but mostly, Dana knew, to the exhilaration of pulling the wool over Gretta's eyes. He gathered Dana into his arms.
'Now, darling, don't work too hard,' he said loudly. 'I'll call you tomorrow,' he added softly, looking intently into her eyes. 'And remember, I'm with you all the way.' He hugged her to him again, to hide her look of despair from the other women. 'Keep smiling,' he whispered. 'A few more minutes and it will all be over.'
'So will you go to bed now or to work?' Angela asked.
Dana drew away from her agent and smiled. 'Do you know, I think I will write a few lines.'
'That's my girl.' Gretta beamed.
The buzzer in the hall sounded and Dana almost fainted with relief. 'That will be the taxi,' she said, trying to look suitably sorry to see them go. 'Thanks again for coming.'
Gretta laughed throatily. 'Yeah, but I bet you can't wait to see the back of us.'
Dana opened her mouth to protest.
'So you can get to work,' Gretta clarified and patted her cheek. 'Well done, honey. I'm sure this is going to be your best book yet.'
As the women climbed into the taxi, Wally turned to give her the thumbs-up.
Dana sighed and shook her head.
His smile faltered slightly. But he had started this show, and he was going to finish it. 'Goodbye, my darling. Talk soon.'
Chapter Nineteen
Dana went into her office, sat down at her desk, and started to write.
I soon realized that life was a lot better in the O'Carroll household when my father was working. While he was writing, he kept to his study for most of the day, even eating at his desk — when he remembered to eat. Mother prepared his meals as usual but wouldn't dare disturb him. If he came looking, the food was there waiting. A fact, I realized, he took completely for granted.
When he occasionally took a break, he went for long solitary walks along the seafront. Sometimes, if he needed distraction, he would venture into town for lunch or a drink at one of the better hotels. He always made a point of taking a book or newspaper to discourage anyone from joining him. My father was not there for the company.
Paradoxically, he was a pious and religious man, who made a point of never working on Sundays. He was happy, however, for my mother to cook breakfast. Then we would dress in our best clothes, attend twelve-thirty Mass and go on into town for lunch.
In this environment, he was in his element. He would talk loudly, regaling us with stories of his childhood or comment — always negatively — on the TV programmes my mother watched, or the books my brother read. I was oblivious in the early days to the tension at these lunches, but I never enjoyed them either.
When Father was in one of his moods, though, Sunday lunches were miserable, fraught occasions. These were the days when my mother and brother were on the receiving end of his attentions. Little things would irritate him. Ed slouching in his chair. Mother coughing delicately into her lace handkerchief. Even I would receive a glare of disapproval for trimming every ounce of fat from my roast beef.
He was an attractive man, in an austere sort of way. But when he was angry, his face would flush, a blue vein would throb in his temple, and he looked ugly and menacing. I was terrified of him on these occasions, yet he had never so much as raised a hand to me. Ed wasn't always so lucky. The atmosphere on the drive home would be charged, and we rarely made it to the house without my father exploding over something.
My mother tried her best to protect us when he was like this and would send us to play in the garden, or up to our rooms to do our homework. When I was smaller and didn't know any better I sometimes protested. But as I reached my teens, I realized what my mother was doing and silently obeyed.
Sometimes it worked. She would go to the kitchen and bake; Father would retire to his study to sleep off his brandy; Ed and I would play battleships or chess in my room.
Other times we weren't so lucky. Father would prowl the house like a caged animal waiting to strike. It would be something small that would set him off. Ed playing his radio too loud, or Mother forgetting to switch off the immersion heater.
'Do you think I'm made of money?' he'd roar.
Money was a constant theme, now I come to think of it. You would think we were poverty-stricken the way he went on about turning off lights and pulling out plugs. He even complained once that Ed was using too much toothpaste. Yet I realized from looking at how my friends lived that we were relatively rich. None of the other kids were ever brough
t to a hotel for lunch or dinner — let alone every week. They went to the Wimpy bar in Wexford for beans and chips — Ed and I were green with envy.
Once my father got started on one of his rants, he lost all control. Not with me, of course. The worst he ever did with his little princess was to roar, 'Get up to your room!'
But my poor brother took the full brunt of our father's anger. He would demand to see Ed's homework and systematically denigrate it. The handwriting was spidery, the maths weak, the spelling atrocious — 'You're an embarrassment,' he would say in disgust.
I remember him firing questions at my brother about history and geography. Then he'd switch from English to Irish, until Ed was so nervous and confused that his stammer would render him almost incoherent. If Ed was lucky, my mother would intervene at this stage, and send Ed to bed. If he wasn't, my father would take off his belt and order Ed into his study. Mother and I would hold each other as we heard his cries, but we knew better than to interfere.
If Mother managed to distract Father, Ed and I would be sent up to bed. Then he would start on her. Ed and I would perch on the top stair, him biting his nails and me silently sobbing. Father would taunt and belittle her and it was usually about Ed. It was her fault that Ed was such a useless specimen. She had mollycoddled him, made him too soft and taught him no discipline. Thank God, Dana, at least, took after his side of the family. Already showing a creative flair, she was pretty too; it was an excellent combination in a young woman. But Ed, my father would sigh dramatically, was good for nothing. I would slip my hand into my brother's as we listened. I could see he was upset but he would fight back the tears and just mutter, 'I'll show him.'
Mother would try a number of different tactics to calm him. Sometimes she'd agree with Father and apologize, telling him she'd try to do better. The first time I overheard this, I was incensed. But Ed just smiled and squeezed my hand. 'It's okay, Dana. Mother doesn't mean it. She's ju — ju -just saying it to shu — shu — shut him up.'
Other times, Mother would open a bottle of wine and pour a glass for them both. Daddy would continue to rant for a while, but by the second glass his voice would quieten and he would finally sit down. He was always at his most dangerous when he was on the move. So once he was ensconced in his armchair, we knew the worst was over. These sessions usually culminated in my parents going to bed early. I used to worry about the noises coming from their room, afraid that maybe my father was hurting Mother in some way. But Ed would grin knowingly and tell me that's how grown-ups made up. I was a naive little thing, and though I didn't understand, neither did I question.
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