Yes, a good day’s work, Lucinda decided with satisfaction, as she put her expenses credit card back in her bag. No doubt accounts would query the sum but when Lucinda explained that it was the carrot that got the horse, they wouldn’t be able to say a word. One expensive present bought one lunch in a posh eatery with Devlin Delaney’s mother and with luck a few revelations about the proprietor of City Girl that would find their way to the article being prepared – an article that would show the successful young businesswoman in a totally different light. I’ll fix you, Ms Delaney! Lucinda thought grimly. The humiliation of being barred from membership of the centre still rankled. Now if only Lydia would agree to be interviewed . . . Kevin Shannon was interviewing Devlin right this minute up in her office, so at least she was out of the way. It would be too awful for words if she came down and caught her with Lydia: she might smell a rat.
Lucinda popped a handmade chocolate into her mouth. ‘I’ll have a box of these as well, Lydia. Aren’t they just delicious?’
‘They’re Butler’s Irish chocolates,’ said Lydia, ‘and they really are one of my best sellers. Everybody loves them: people buy them for themselves as well as for presents. I often bring a few home myself. Gerry goes mad for them. He has a terrible sweet tooth.’ Getting Butler’s to supply her had been one of her brainwaves. And what better way to celebrate a special occasion than with rich chocolate with fresh cream fillings. Devlin was always nipping in and filching a few.
‘I’ll take your biggest box,’ Lucinda said. ‘I’m having a dinner party and they’ll go down a treat.’ She took out her expenses credit card again. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, she decided.
Lydia smiled. She was doing great business with Lucinda this morning, she thought in amusement. Obviously she was a woman who didn’t hold grudges: because when Devlin had told her she had revoked the gossip columnist’s membership, Lydia hadn’t expected to see her again. Not that she was actually in the centre at the minute; the shopping mall was accessible to the public. Further down the ceramic-tiled mall were the glass doors to reception. Only those with a membership card or members’ guests could enter there.
‘You know, Lydia—’ Lucinda turned to Devlin’s mother with wide innocent eyes ‘—why didn’t I think of it before? What an idiot I am!’ She gave a husky self-deprecating chuckle. ‘I’m doing an article about women like us in their late forties-early fifties, who’ve made successful careers in their later years. You’d be perfect! You’re an inspiration to us all.’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ Lydia demurred.
‘But Lydia, look what you’ve done: you’ve made a great success of Special Occasions and it’s so tastefully designed and decorated. I remember Devlin saying in some interview or other that you had a great eye for decor. It’s super; I might even be able to photograph you here. It would be great publicity for the business,’ Lucinda added slyly.
Lydia was hesitant. She wasn’t too crazy about being interviewed by Lucinda: she knew she should be extremely wary of her. Like everyone else, she read Lucinda’s column, ‘The Grapevine’, and enjoyed it while still feeling sorry for the unfortunate victims of Lucinda’s poison grapes. No! Lydia decided, free publicity or not she did not want to feature in ‘The Grapevine’; she could end up being strangled by its vicious tentacles.
Lucinda saw the doubt in the other woman’s eyes. Damn, I’ve lost her, she cursed silently. She knew if she was to carry this off, she’d want to think of something quickly. As well as everything else, time was running short. She thought fast. It was her forte.
‘Of course Lydia, you’re no doubt thinking of “The Grapevine”,’ Lucinda gave another husky chuckle. ‘This will not be a trivial or gossipy interview, my dear. This is a new series we’re thinking of doing called “Women in Their Prime”,’ she lied frantically, although now that she thought of it, it wasn’t a half-bad idea. ‘It will be a full spread in the “Interviews, Reviews, and What’s New?” supplement and actually, thinking about it, I’d like to lead off with a serious in-depth interview with you that will concentrate on the business side of things. You’re the epitome of the woman we are looking for. Oh, come on, Lydia,’ she urged. ‘Be a sport and let’s show these successful yuppies that they’re not the only ones that can do it. Let’s show the world that you’re not over the hill just because you’re over forty.’
It’s a long time since you saw forty, Lydia thought dryly, observing the other woman with her perfectly made-up face. She could not conceal the crow’s-feet around her eyes despite the face-lifts, or the telltale sag around the chin and that dead giveaway, the wrinkly neck. Lucinda Marshall was a hell of a lot closer to sixty than she was to forty. Perhaps it was the blonde hair that really made her mutton dressed as lamb. It was much too harsh; a nice ash blonde would have been more subtle. Lydia had to admit, however, that Lucinda’s figure was excellent and in her Genny mini-skirted red-check suit, her legs were still passable. If you’ve got it, flaunt it, was Lucinda’s motto, and more power to her, thought Lydia in amusement. She herself was dressed in a classically elegant Michael Mortell avocado two-piece which she had had for several years.
‘Lydia, come on,’ Lucinda wheedled. ‘We’ll have a jolly lunch. An hour or two will do the whole thing; it will be painless, I promise.’
‘Now?’ Lydia exclaimed.
‘Why not?’ Lucinda kept her tone light although she was beginning to panic that Kevin’s interview with Devlin would soon be over and she might make an appearance and spoil everything. She felt like strangling Lydia.
‘Look, it’s just twelve-fifteen. How about we pop over to The Commons? It’s only five minutes away. City Girl is so central to all the good restaurants.’ Lucinda felt her smile was stuck to her face. She could see that Lydia was wavering. People were so easily swayed when you preceded the word ‘interview’ with ‘serious and in-depth’. On second thoughts, she decided hastily, The Commons was a bit too open for the interview she had in mind. There were too many distractions. The Ladies Who Lunch would be stopping by at her table to greet her like the smarmy sycophants they were, in the hopes of getting a mention in the ‘Who’s Lunching with Whom’ section.
Not that everybody was eager to be written about in that column. Only last week she had mentioned seeing a well-known film director with a young actress from the cast of his current film. Mrs Film Director had not been the slightest bit amused, by all accounts, to read in her Sunday newspaper that her husband was wining and dining a pretty thing who was young enough to be his granddaughter, especially since he had told her he was seeing his accountant. The film director had accosted Lucinda and verbally abused her in the Horseshoe Bar in the Shelbourne, where he liked to sit and pontificate to anyone who would listen to him.
‘I’ll put you in my next film, see if I don’t! You’ll be the laughing-stock of Dublin, you talentless hackette. You scribe of scurrility. You dispenser of trivia and trash,’ he slurred, his ruddy face even ruddier than normal, his little pig-eyes glowering over the top of the half-moon glasses he affected.
‘Darling, if you put me in the film I can guarantee you an Oscar – and God knows you need one,’ Lucinda drawled, and a ripple of laughter had run through the bar from a greatly diverted audience of movers and shakers. This was the kind of thing they thrived on. There hadn’t been a good to-do there since the episode of the drunken journalists.
‘You . . . you medusa of the back page,’ the outraged film director had howled.
‘Oh, go home and make a film about Mimsy and Pimsy – it’s all you’re good for,’ Lucinda said dismissively, referring to his penchant for boasting about his two obnoxious Pekinese dogs, that were the greatest ankle-nippers this side of the Panama Canal.
The film director gave a strangled gasp and for one heart-stoppingly delicious moment the audience thought he was going to make a lunge for Lucinda and grab her by the throat. Unfortunately, his bosom buddy and sailing companion, an ex-politician who had been in many scrapes, grabbed him b
y the arm and urged restraint. Both men lurched out the door, as drunk as skunks, the film director clutching at his toupee, which was slighty askew. They left Lucinda the queen of all she surveyed.
No, decided Lucinda, a very small, intimate restaurant was what she needed for today’s lunch. She wanted no cock-ups, no interruptions, just Lydia Delaney on her own. ‘I know—’ she placed a hand on Lydia’s arm, ‘—let’s go to The Seven Hills. It’s just opened. It’s very quiet and intimate and the food . . .’ Lucinda kissed the top of her fingers. ‘Magnifico. You do like Italian, don’t you?’
‘Well . . .’ Lydia reluctantly agreed, almost overwhelmed by Lucinda’s breathless enthusiasm. Now that she knew she wasn’t going to feature in ‘The Grapevine’ she was beginning to warm to the idea. It was flattering to think that Lucinda wanted her to be the first in the series of ‘Women in Their Prime’. And just think what a surprise it would be for Gerry and Devlin. She wouldn’t tell them about it and then they’d be amazed when they opened their Sunday Echo. It would make Gerry proud of her. He was really pleased and supportive about this new venture and to tell the truth, since she had given up drinking and Devlin and she were much closer after all their traumas, Lydia had been at peace and felt so fulfilled. In a way it was like starting afresh, as much for Gerry as for herself. Gerry was a good husband and she had never been much of a wife – and as for being a mother to Devlin . . . Lydia felt a stab of shame. She had treated her daughter so badly, and look how Devlin had forgiven her and encouraged her every step of the way with her boutique. She was a very special young woman. She’d make sure to mention that fact, and acknowledge Gerry’s love and support for her as well, in the chat. The past was the past and Lydia was very glad to let it go. She would do this interview.
‘I’ll just get my bag and coat, Lucinda. You really are persuasive. No wonder you’re so good at what you do. Rhona, I’m just going to lunch.’ Lydia walked over to where her young assistant was arranging a display of red, yellow and white roses. Roses were the only flowers that Special Occasions stocked. Lydia had discovered that many men liked to buy roses to go with the lovely lingerie they bought for wives, girlfriends and mistresses. ‘I won’t be long, dear,’ she murmured. ‘If I’m delayed, close up and have something in the Coffee Dock.’
‘OK, Mrs Delaney. I’ll see you later.’
‘Splendid,’ declared Lucinda, wishing to God that Lydia would hurry up and get the hell out of the boutique. It was only when they were walking down a frosty, sunlit Grafton Street that the gossip columnist gave a mental sigh of relief and started to relax. Phase One successfully carried out. But Phase Two would be much trickier. She had spent a fortune in Special Occasions. Having lunch in The Seven Hills was not for the financially fainthearted. If she didn’t pull this off, she was going to have to deal with a very irate accountant and an unimpressed editor. And people think I have the life of Riley, Lucinda reflected as she led the way into the softly lit, soothing reception area of the plush restaurant just off Wicklow Street. If they made any fuss because she hadn’t booked or if she didn’t get a table, there’d be hell to pay. Fortunately there were very few restaurants in Dublin where Lucinda Marshall was refused a table. It was more than anyone’s job was worth to get on the wrong side of her.
‘Miss Marshall! A delight. Table for two?’ The smiling young man at reception greeted them. ‘Please have a drink at the bar while the maître d’ sees to your table.’ He ushered them into a small secluded bar where a log fire burned brightly and told the barman, ‘Whatever the ladies want, it’s on the house.’ He left them with Lucinda trying to persuade Lydia to have a Kir, and Lydia refusing very firmly, saying a Ballygowan would do her fine.
Sticking his head into the kitchen the receptionist announced glumly, ‘That Marshall bitch from the Sunday Echo is out front. Let’s take no chances!’
‘Mama fuckin’ mia,’ moaned the chef-proprietor. He was suffering from a severe hangover and he knew it was going to be a hell of a long day. Lucinda Marshall was the last thing he needed right now.
Hell, thought Lucinda, as she observed Lydia sipping her sparkling water. How was she ever going to loosen Devlin’s mother’s tongue if she sat sipping mineral water! Phase Two was turning out to be a lot trickier than she had anticipated. Excusing herself to go to the powder room, Lucinda slipped into the restaurant and had a word in the maître d’s ear.
Forty-Seven
‘How sweet!’ trilled Lucinda, as she saw the champagne on ice that awaited them at their table.
‘Our pleasure, Miss Marshall,’ the maître d’ said suavely as he seated the ladies.
‘Have some, Lydia; do,’ urged Lucinda.
‘Maybe later,’ Lydia said non-committally.
‘It’s Dom Perignon, darling,’ Lucinda said a little tartly.
‘So I see,’ smiled Lydia. ‘Enjoy it, Lucinda.’
Lucinda sipped the champagne sorrowfully. Imagine not getting excited over Dom Perignon; now that was sophistication. Lucinda Marshall had never forgotten that she was born on the wrong side of the tracks, in what nowadays would be called a socially deprived family. Deserted by her father, with an alcoholic mother, she had hauled her way up to social prominence by relentless climbing, erasing her background completely and inventing a totally new past for herself.
No-one knew of her past except her first husband, and he was dead. Her second husband, an inoffensive retired architect a decade older than she, had believed every word of the story she had told him: of how her doctor father and artist mother had been killed in a car crash when she was very young. Lucinda often thanked God that she had no siblings to reveal that her mother had died in an asylum. Privately, Lucinda acknowledged to herself that Lydia had natural elegance and sophistication that she could never aspire to no matter how hard she tried. Lydia had been born to it; Lucinda had acquired hers. Lydia Delaney was a very cultured lady, and listening to her as she spoke enthusiastically about her business, answering the questions that Lucinda put to her for her so-called ‘Women in Their Prime’ interview, the columnist half-wished that she was doing the interview for real.
Doing her Grapevine column gave her a very high profile but she knew that to many she was just a figure of fun and not taken seriously as a journalist. There were times when she chafed at this, times when she longed to show her peers that she could do as good a probing serious interview as the rest of them without resorting to gossip and innuendo. But it was too late now: she was what she was.
‘And the amazing thing is, Lucinda, women are buying sexy lingerie for themselves. Lots of my customers are women from City Girl who want to treat themselves to something nice, not because it’s what a husband or boyfriend wants to see them in but because they want to have something nice and expensive and sensual to wear. I think that’s great, don’t you? It’s a far cry from when I was a young woman,’ Lydia laughed.
‘Mmm, me too; my mother would have called me a slut.’ The words were out of Lucinda’s mouth almost before she realized it. For God’s sake, get with it, Lucinda admonished herself. She was not here to empathize with Lydia Delaney: she was here to get the goods on her daughter Devlin. They were waiting for dessert and she noted with satisfaction that Lydia was quite relaxed. Unobtrusively she leaned over and filled Lydia’s champagne glass, topping up her own at the same time, while asking a question about whether the current recession was having an effect on business.
Lydia wrinkled her brow and almost absentmindedly took a sip from the glass of champagne. ‘A certain class of people will always have money, Lucinda,’ she answered. ‘I’m sure you find that yourself. I can’t say there’s been a noticeable fall-off in business.’ She suddenly realized that she had taken a sip of champagne. What on earth was she doing? She hadn’t touched alcohol in months. Not since Devlin’s accident when she had gone on that horrific binge. After that she had gone into St Gabriel’s for a rest, as she called it herself, but in reality to dry out. Lydia had never acknowledged to herself tha
t she was an alcoholic. Sometimes there had been gaps between her binges lasting for months, and she had never allowed herself to get drunk in public. Nevertheless, after her time in St Gabriel’s, she had consciously abstained from drink and all in all, she had to admit, her life was much the better for it.
The champagne was lovely, though! The one little glass wouldn’t harm her, she reasoned. Really, she was having such a pleasant time. Lucinda was a most charming hostess and she was so interested in Lydia’s success. She had always thought of her as a trashy journalist, but there was a serious side to the other woman and from the intelligent questions she was asking about Special Occasions, Lydia could see that there was a sharp brain ticking away behind all the glitz and glamour. She really was quite pleased with the way the interview was progressing.
‘What does your husband think about your success?’ Lucinda smiled, gazing wide-eyed at Lydia as she refilled the glasses. It was a trick she had perfected over the years. Make eye-contact. Ask the question, and the victims never even notice that their glass is being filled to the brim, while your own is half-empty.
‘Gerry’s delighted for me,’ said Lydia, beaming and taking another sip of Dom Perignon.
‘Really! Isn’t it wonderful to have a supportive husband!’ Lucinda cried, watching in satisfaction as Lydia sipped more of the sparkling golden liquid.
An hour later Lydia Delaney was plastered. Lucinda was amazed at how quickly she had gone from the giggly stage to the faint slurring of the words and the unsteady focus of the eyes. Mind, it had taken another bottle of champagne, most of which Lydia, unbeknown to herself, had drunk.
Very discreetly, Lucinda placed her clutch-bag on the table and pretended to search for a tissue. Casually, she drew her miniature tape recorder out towards the flap, and clicked it on, all the while engaging Lydia in conversation.
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