Apartment 3B

by Patricia Scanlan

  ‘The Government acted as responsibly and quickly as was required,’ snarled the Minister.

  ‘Which wasn’t quick or responsible enough in the eyes of many,’ retorted Hugh triumphantly. ‘And there we have to leave it.’

  He addressed the audience and camera one as the theme music began to play and the credits started to roll and the Minister, furious, tried to respond. ‘Goodnight from this week’s edition of News Review.’

  The lights in the studio darkened, the audience clapped and Hugh leaned back in his chair, elated. He loved it when an interview really came together.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Cassidy. I’ll make damn sure you don’t get to interview me again,’ the outraged Minister fumed.

  ‘Just doing my job!’ smiled Hugh. ‘Here’s the girl from hospitality to take care of you,’ he said briskly, rising from his chair. ‘Goodnight, Minister.’ Hugh didn’t have the time or the inclination to stay and soothe the ruffled feathers of his eminent guest. He had to attend the post-programme discussion and then go home and finish his packing. He was moving house the following day. After that he had to get ready to fly to the States on Monday morning to put together a programme on New York Congresswoman Geraldine Ferraro, the first ever woman chosen to run for vice-president by either the Democrats or the Republicans. In Hugh’s opinion, presidential candidate Walter Mondale had made an inspired choice. Geraldine Ferraro was a brisk, no-nonsense highly-intelligent woman, adept at using the media. ‘She’s a woman, she’s ethnic, she’s a Catholic,’ one of Mondale’s advisers explained the calculation that had lead to her choice. That whole issue would give Hugh plenty of material for the programme. He hoped she would halt Reagan’s gallop.

  Hugh was really looking forward to getting back to the States. He had done several documentaries about the thousands of Irish emigrants working there and his ultimate goal was to make it on Network TV in America. This trip on Monday would be another step towards that goal.

  ‘You really got the needle in tonight, Hugh,’ his producer grinned as they walked towards his office.

  ‘Well, he’s a sneaky gurrier at the best of times, despite the charm,’ Hugh observed. ‘I enjoyed watching him squirm.’

  ‘And no-one better to make a politician squirm! The programme is still at the top of the TAM ratings and looks like staying there if the feedback is anything to go by.’

  ‘That’s what I like to hear,’ said Hugh.

  By the time he got home to the house in Inchicore it was much later than he had anticipated. He’d run into a journalist friend and by the time he had caught up on all the gossip over a pint in Kiely’s in Donnybrook, it was after eleven. Reluctantly he departed. He was not in the humour to empty the contents of his wardrobe into cardboard cartons. Moving house was a real pain but still, he had made a profit on his terraced two-up two-down. Five years ago he wouldn’t have been able to consider moving to a semi-detached in the suburbs, let alone into the plush designer mews in Donnybrook which was to be his new abode. He had done well for himself, very well. But he had worked damned hard for it.

  Getting a burst of energy he started to pack. He had done most of it earlier in the week. As ever he was organized and the cardboard boxes packed with all his belongings lay stacked in the hall, neatly labelled. With his system, he reckoned that he should be unpacked and settled in his new house in a day. All he had to do now was clear his wardrobe and take down his pictures. Hugh sighed. Karen, his ex-girlfriend, would have been a whiz at organizing his wardrobe but their relationship had ended a few years ago and she was now happily married and expecting her first baby. In fact she was glowing. He had met her recently and had been quite taken aback at how well she looked. Obviously marriage and impending motherhood suited her. He hadn’t got into another relationship, he just hadn’t the time, and social dating suited him just fine these days. Within the hour, his wardrobe was cleared. He had been ruthless. Anything he had not worn over the previous two years was neatly packed to be delivered to the St Vincent de Paul Society, the rest lay ready to be transported to Donnybrook. Hugh sat on the end of his bed. All he had to do now was take down his pictures. He had only one in the bedroom, a Liz Lacey original. It was a lovely watercolour of Killiney Bay and the Sugar Loaf Mountain that had attracted him the first moment he had seen it on exhibition in Stephen’s Green several years ago. He had bought it when she was unknown but it had more than quadrupled in value now that she was becoming the ‘in’ artist with the rich and famous. A thought struck him. He must do an interview with Liz Lacey. Now that would be interesting. But first things first. He’d better start preparing for the Ferraro programme. Research was everything. Lighting a cheroot he lay back against his pillows, picked up his notes and began to read.

  Thursday 19 August 1986

  ‘Damn! Damn! Damn!’ muttered Hugh as he tried to ring Liz to tell her he would be delayed getting over to see her later that evening and that the game of tennis they had planned was off. For the first time in his career Hugh was browned off because something big had come up and he had to work on it. The IRA suspect, Gerard O’Reilly, had been freed due to an error in his extradition warrant and they were getting a programme together about it. Normally it was something Hugh would love to get his teeth into but he hadn’t seen Liz for three days and he was missing her like crazy.

  He’d really fallen this time and fallen hard. No woman had ever affected him like Liz Lacey. From the minute he had been introduced to her at Antoinette’s party in New York, he had been intrigued. Hooked. Oh, she had recognized him all right, and Hugh was used to that reaction by now, but she hadn’t been the slightest bit interested. He’d really had to make an effort there – new experience for him. But then when he found out about her dead husband he had quite understood. It had changed things.

  Normally if he was interested in a girl, Hugh would pull out all the stops. He would wine her, dine her and bring her to all the glamorous events that he was invited to as a celebrity. Usually this was more than enough to get a woman seriously interested, but with Liz it had been different. She was a success herself. That kind of thing didn’t interest her. And anyway Hugh didn’t want that kind of relationship. There was something about Liz Lacey that was very special and if he could get her to like him for himself and not because of who he was, that would more than please him. Mind, he’d kind of bulldozed his way into her life, arriving at her place with a picnic lunch and persuading her to let him do a documentary about her. But she had been amused at his cheek and from then on they had begun to see each other. To his great delight she was as much a fresh-air fiend as he was and a sports lover to boot. He really enjoyed their tennis matches. Liz was no pushover; she was an extremely skilful player.

  Hugh could see Liz fighting her own attraction to him and it had driven him crazy sometimes. But he’d let her make all the moves at her own pace, realizing that the ghost of a dead and much-loved husband was no easy thing to cope with. Sometimes he wanted to shake her hard and shout, ‘Forget him; he’s dead and I’m here and I’m alive.’ But it was only in moments of extreme frustration and it was a matter of pride to Hugh that he could say he had exerted no pressure on Liz to become his lover. The decision had been all hers and because of this, he treasured that beautiful night all the more. When Liz looked at him with those smiling, incredibly blue eyes Hugh knew that he was the luckiest man in the world. Women like Liz were rare and he was blessed to have found her. What fascinated him about her was her warmth towards her friends and family. Hugh had a brother and sister that he rarely saw. Not because he didn’t want to, merely because he didn’t have the time. He went to visit his mother once or twice a week and always made sure she had enough money and plenty of coal and logs and stuff. But Liz called on her family because she actually enjoyed being with them and she would go out of her way to make sure she saw them. And as for her niece! Hugh could take or leave children, although he had to admit that Fiona was a beautiful little girl, but Liz was besotted by her. It fascinated hi
m to watch it. A very loving woman was Liz and he, lucky man that he was, was on the receiving end of a lot of it. Damn that bloody extradition warrant anyway! He probably wouldn’t get to see her tonight at all, he fumed, as he waited for her to answer her phone.

  Tuesday 31 January 1989

  ‘I’m going to the airport with you,’ Hugh insisted.

  Liz glared at him. ‘Not in that condition, you’re not.’

  ‘What condition?’ he snapped. Liz could be so bloody stubborn.

  ‘Hugh, you’ve been snorting coke and you know I hate it. I want to go in a taxi on my own.’

  ‘Oh for Chrissakes, Liz, everybody does it here. It’s like smoking a cigarette. Stop getting so het-up about it.’

  She was really annoying him, going on about it all the time. Right now he was glad she was going home. She had flown out to join him in New York where he was working his ass off trying to get the biggest contract of his career and at the beginning it had been great. Hugh had missed her so much and they had had a wonderful few days of reunion. The great thing about Liz was that she was well able to entertain herself, which was just as well because he hadn’t a spare minute. It was all go go go in the Big Apple and Hugh loved it. He was born to work here, he told himself, striding down Fifth Avenue to this meeting and that meeting. And things were going well too. NBC TV had been extremely interested in signing a contract with him but CNN were the ones he was after and so far they hadn’t turned him down flat. Mind, he had a very impressive portfolio and list of credits at his back. All his hard work at home had more than paid off. It was a tough city, though, the city that never sleeps, the city of dog eat dog. It was no wonder that people turned to something like coke to get them through. Cocaine made him feel as if nothing or no-one could get the better of him. It made him feel more alert and alive than anything else he had ever experienced. If Liz would only try it once she’d understand. But she wouldn’t touch the stuff. And he wouldn’t force her but he wished she’d lay off moaning about it when she didn’t know what she was talking about. She was terribly restless lately, for some reason he could not fathom. Hugh wished more than anything that she would come out to the States and live with him when he finally made the move, but if her attitude the last month she had been here was anything to go by, he was going to have an awful lot of persuading to do.

  Looking at her troubled blue eyes as she stared at him across the living-room floor, his heart melted. ‘Look I’m sorry, Liz. I was at a meeting until three this morning and then I had to go to another one at ten-fifteen. I just took a little snort so I wouldn’t fall asleep on you. I can get by without it no problem, believe me. It’s just that everything is coming together right now and I need my wits about me.’

  ‘You won’t have any wits if you keep taking that stuff,’ she said gently, unable to hide her concern.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Liz, it’s a social habit, nothing else. I can give it up any time I want to. Now, are you going to let me go with you to the airport or not?’

  ‘OK,’ she said flatly and he felt like shaking her.

  ‘Don’t sound too enthusiastic, for God’s sake!’ he snapped and then felt like a heel. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said contritely.

  ‘So am I,’ Liz sighed as she walked into his outstretched arms.

  Sitting in the taxi, with his arm around her as they sped towards JFK, Hugh reflected that they always seemed to be saying ‘I’m sorry’ lately.

  CLAIRE

  Saturday 10 May 1980

  Claire struggled against a wave of nausea, praying she wouldn’t have to leave the church. She’d hate to miss watching her son receive his first Holy Communion. Beside her, Suzy, her eight-year-old daughter, fidgeted restlessly. She earned a stern look from her father. ‘Say your prayers!’ Sean growled.

  ‘I’m saying them!’ Suzy muttered defiantly, never one to take a rebuke lying down. Their son David, on the other hand, would have meekly done as he was bid. Claire sighed. Chalk and cheese her two children were, though David was only one year younger than Suzy. Her daughter was spirited, full of life; her son, gentle and quiet. And this new baby that she was carrying? What would it be? Boy or girl?

  She sighed again. Maybe it was a sin but she had cursed when her period hadn’t arrived and she noticed the unmistakable signs of pregnancy. Even at this early stage – she was only a few weeks gone – her breasts felt tight and sore and were already too big for her bra.

  If only she hadn’t had to come off the pill in order to have that operation she would have been fine. Maybe it was God’s revenge for deceiving her husband for the last six years. She cast a sidelong glance at Sean, who knelt beside her mother, watching two of his pupils with a gimlet eye. The boys were skitting and laughing and they’d be in trouble when her husband got his hands on them. Honestly, he made no allowance for the fact that they were children. Some of their fiercest arguments were caused by his sternness. Sean had an iron will and an inflexible way of thinking that got worse the longer he taught. He liked the position of power his job conferred on him but he couldn’t leave it behind him once school was over. Sometimes Claire felt as though he saw her as another one of his pupils to be moulded and shaped as he saw fit. As he got older, he became more set in his ways and more difficult to live with. He’d be forty-five in two weeks, and she was twenty-seven. Being passed over for promotion at work hadn’t helped. He had been so set for so long on getting the position of principal that since they went over his head and took in a new, younger, more forward-thinking headmaster, he ranted and raved and made life at home a misery.

  ‘Bloody whippersnapper! What bloody experience has he got? I’ve been teaching for twenty-five bloody years, Claire. It’s just not good enough. Damn that parish priest!’ She had felt for him, felt his deep disappointment at being passed over but in truth she could understand why he had not impressed the interviewers. Rigid, deeply conservative, he had no time for the more modern teaching methods. ‘Bloody nonsense,’ he called it. She had lived with the word ‘bloody’ for the last nine years and she was tired of it. Marriage was not the idyll she had envisaged.

  Now, as well as being pregnant, she was going to have to uproot herself from all that was familiar in Knockross and move to Dublin with her husband. His unmarried Aunt Tess had died and left him her house in the city. At first he was going to sell the property, so sure was he that he would be made principal of the local school, but when the job went to someone else he was so embittered he had immediately started looking for a position in the capital. ‘Well, you can’t expect me to work under that young upstart?’ was his gruff response to Claire when he told her of his plans and saw her face falling.

  ‘But the children are settled at school. All their friends are here!’ she protested.

  ‘Claire, my mind is made up. We’re going to Dublin and that’s final,’ he said in his ‘I know what’s best’ tone of voice.

  ‘Well I don’t want to go!’ Claire replied heatedly.

  ‘Dear, we all have to do things we don’t like. I thought you’d be much more supportive.’

  ‘I am being supportive. I just think it’s such a drastic step. Couldn’t you look for a teaching job in Waterford!’

  ‘But sure, they’d be wondering why the parish priest couldn’t see his way to making me principal here. I’m telling you, Claire, it’s the kiss of death for my career if I stay in this area. I’ve got to go to Dublin or Cork or one of the big cities if I’m going to get anywhere at my age. I might be lucky in a school in one of those new suburbs that are supposed to be mushrooming all over the place. Dublin is the ideal place now that Tess has left me the house, God bless her!’ He smiled comfortingly at Claire. ‘It’s a great opportunity to start afresh and sure, won’t you have Rosie to visit? Isn’t she living in Dublin? Come on now, Claire! It will be for the best. We’ll drive up to Dublin at the weekend and have a day out and have a look at the house.’

  They’d driven up to Dublin the following weekend, the children in the back of the
car, wildly excited. Sean had told them that when they moved to the city they’d be able to go to the zoo and the Botanic Gardens and other interesting places. This promise had helped ease their dismay at the thought of leaving their pals. As they neared the capital, Claire found herself getting almost as excited as the children. Maybe the move would be good for them all. She had loved Dublin the few times she had stayed in it. All the shops! The huge supermarkets. Not that Sean would let her go wild but at least she’d be able to look at the things.

  He was so careful with money. The previous year when it was time for Suzy’s Holy Communion she had had an awful job trying to prise the money for the child’s dress out of him. He didn’t believe in such nonsense, he had informed her. There was far too much emphasis on the dresses and veils and the money they’d get from neighbours and relations. Of course he was right in a way but Claire didn’t want her little daughter to have anything less than her classmates. The prices of dresses were outrageous. Heaven above, she hadn’t spent as much on her wedding dress, she thought in shock when she saw the price of one flouncy creation. She knew her husband would never shell out the amount she would need. After all, shoes had to be bought, a white bag and a cardigan in case it was cold on the day. All she had in her own cache was twenty pounds. Twenty pounds hard got through appropriating the odd ten-pence piece off the dressing-table at night. There her husband neatly piled his loose change before getting in to bed. She’d never risk taking fifty pence – he’d know he was missing that amount – but the occasional ten-pence he didn’t miss. It was just like her mother with her father. The only difference was that her father drank all their money whereas Sean saved his for a rainy day. Holy Communions did not constitute a rainy day in his opinion.