City Girl

by Patricia Scanlan

  That night Maggie went to bed early and slept like a log. She took her leave of Devlin the following day, refreshed in body, determined in mind. She was going to change her life too, she told herself firmly, as she drove along the rainwashed leafy back roads to Castleknock.

  She stopped off at a newsagents to buy some chocolate for her craving hormones and the heading of an article in a magazine caught her eye: ‘See your Novel in Print!’ She smiled wryly, remembering the novel started in Saudi. God knows she had enough experience of life there and in the States to write about, and what about Terry and Ria? Maggie grimaced. No Jackie Collins novel had quite prepared her for the shock of finding her husband with another woman. Picking up the magazine, she bought a box of Milk Tray as well. Let Terry go and pick up the children in Wicklow. She was going to read her magazine and eat chocolates for the afternoon, she decided. A subdued and abashed Terry agreed to her cool suggestion that he collect the children and when he was gone she settled down to enjoy her afternoon of lazy solitude. When Terry returned with the children, there was no meal ready for him, and so he had put the twins to bed and for the first time she could remember, her husband had cooked dinner.

  That night she told him to move in to the guest room, and seeing the expression in her eyes, he didn’t argue. There he would stay, she decided, until she was ready to forgive him. That was if she ever forgave him. It had been his choice to play around, she was making her choice now. The following morning before her husband went to work, Maggie informed him that she was going to employ a woman to come every Friday and take care of the twins and do some housework. From now on Fridays were going to be hers completely. Terry was too taken aback at her determined attitude to protest and when he came home from work and found his dinner not ready, the twins playing with her knitting and Maggie tapping inexpertly but enthusiastically on a new portable typewriter, she could see from the expression on his face that Terry felt that his carefully ordered existence had collapsed!

  Thirty-four

  For months Maggie worked on The Novel. Her diary had sown the seeds when she had been in Saudi and although it had been a long time since she had read what she had written there in that hot dusty country, her pulse had quickened with excitement as ideas began to form and she started to write again.

  She would enter the competition in the magazine and see how she got on. Maybe she would win and see her novel in print. What a thought! She decided to base her story on the lives of three wives of very different backgrounds who find themselves becoming friends in the claustrophobic setting of a foreign compound in Saudi. Smiling to herself one day she prepared to introduce a new character.

  ‘Ira Kingston was the kind of woman who wore Poison. And it suited her!’ she had written. Maggie knew precisely who the bitch in the story would be modelled on.

  ‘Ria Kirby, you might help make my fortune yet,’ she muttered as she tapped away briskly. It was hard going, finding the time to create. Maggie didn’t find writing itself difficult. The ideas poured out of her, but finding the time to do it was another thing. She kept at it, sitting at her kitchen table while her children played at her feet, or if the sun was shining, sitting at her patio table with her portable typewriter and her Ballygowan, dressed in the loosest, coolest maternity dress she could find, one eye on her keyboard, the other on the twins. She found that she could shut out all noise and diversion and concentrate on the lives of the women she was writing about.

  As in her previous pregnancy, she developed toxaemia and had to go into hospital early to be induced. Again she had a difficult labour but when her baby daughter was placed in her arms Maggie forgot all the hassle and pain as she looked into the big blue eyes that seemed as though they were saying ‘Well here I am and wasn’t it all worth it?’

  For a while after her return from hospital, Maggie didn’t go near her novel. She just hadn’t the time, although Josie, her ‘Friday Woman,’ made a great difference to her. Eventually she got into a routine. Her new baby, Fiona, was a quiet contented child, who thankfully slept through the night unlike her siblings at the same age. Maggie would give her her six o’ clock feed and then write until it was time to prepare Terry’s breakfast. As the pages rolled off the typewriter and the manuscript began to pile up, Maggie came to feel a quiet satisfaction. At last she was doing something creative, something that wasn’t connected with her family. She knew she was writing a good story. Surely someone would publish it!

  Caroline and Devlin were delighted for her. They would read each instalment, oohing and aahing as they recognized this one and that, and demanding more. Maggie was so pleased that Devlin had decided to go and live in Rosslare. She’d miss her like crazy, but at least she and Lynn would be starting afresh.

  When Maggie heard from Caroline about Devlin’s accident, she was devastated and guilt-ridden. After all, it was she who had told Devlin to stop acting the martyr and think of Lynn and Kate and go and live in the Harbour. Maybe if she had kept her advice to herself, Kate and Lynn might still be alive and Devlin wouldn’t be suffering like she was. Then there was Caroline’s breakdown and alcoholism. She should have made Caroline tell her what was troubling her. Maybe she could have eased the younger girl’s trauma. What was happening to the three of them? All deeply troubled, unable to help each other as they wanted to.

  It had been the hardest thing in the world to walk into the ward where Devlin was lying and face her. They had held each other tightly. Maggie had been unable to hide her tears, but Devlin had remained dry-eyed. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, now or ever,’ she said to Maggie and Maggie, not knowing what to say or do could only hold her friend in her arms. She visited her daily, but Devlin never spoke about the accident or the death of her aunt and daughter, and Maggie couldn’t raise the subject, although she knew that her friend, by not expressing her grief, was letting herself in for trouble.

  Caroline too was undergoing a detox programme, and although she seemed to be recovering, and had lost that awful haunted unhappy expression she couldn’t talk about the underlying cause of her troubles. She told Maggie that some time she would tell her everything, but not now, not yet.

  It was a difficult time for Maggie: both her friends in trauma, her own marriage damaged by Terry’s affair with Ria, and the demands of a new baby and two young toddlers to occupy her. But somehow she found the strength to keep going: to visit and be supportive to her two best friends, to look after the needs of her family and even to write.

  She drove herself to have the novel finished by the competition closing date. There were times when the last thing she wanted to do was to sit at her typewriter and write. She would find herself making excuses, even doing the ironing – which she hated – rather than sit down in front of her keyboard. But other times she’d make herself do it, and once she got going, and the flow was there, she might write fifteen or twenty pages and end up drained of energy but on a high as the lives of her characters took shape and she began to think of them as almost human. It was with immense relief and the sense of a burden being lifted that she finished her first manuscript on time and posted it off. She collected Caroline, who was now out of hospital and looking much better, and they both went in to see Devlin and toasted her achievement with Lucozade.

  Maggie couldn’t say that she had really enjoyed writing the novel. The part where Ira Kingston seduced the husband of one of the heroines had been written from the heart, but she had very much enjoyed the reaction of her friends as they read each instalment and clamoured for more.

  ‘Maggie, that’s a sweet revenge,’ Devlin had smiled as she instantly recognized the unmistakable Ria.

  Maggie grinned back, unabashed. ‘That’ll teach her to go messing about with other women’s husbands!’

  Privately she was thanking God that Devlin seemed to be coming out of that frightening shocked depression she had been in since the accident. The new health club idea she was on about was just the thing to take her mind off things. If anybody could make a go of it,
Devlin could. Hearing a knock on the door, Maggie saw Devlin’s eyes light up a little and knew before he even walked in, that it was Luke Reilly.

  Now there was a man and a half! He’d be perfect for the hero in her next novel. What a dish, and so genuinely nice too. Maybe she’d write about them in her next novel and Devlin would recognize herself and take the hint. Taking Caroline by the arm, she smiled and said her goodbyes.

  ‘He’s nice isn’t he?’ remarked Caroline.

  ‘He certainly is,’ agreed Maggie.

  ‘Let’s hope he’s not the kind of bastard Colin Cantrell-King was,’ mused Caroline.

  Maggie gave a wry smile. ‘I wonder if there’s any such thing as a faithful husband?’

  ‘Ah, Maggie, I’m sorry about you and Terry. I always thought you and he were the perfect couple,’ her friend said. ‘If it’s any comfort to you I know what you’re going through, Richard . . . ’ Caroline stopped, unable to continue.

  ‘It’s alright, Caro. You don’t have to tell me anything,’ Maggie hastened to reassure her.

  Caroline smiled. ‘I want to tell you, Maggie, and I will, but right now it would take too long to go into and I’ve got to go for a counselling session. We’ll get together soon and really talk.’

  ‘Whenever you want to is fine with me,’ Maggie said, hugging the younger woman. Watching her hail a passing taxi, Maggie reflected that Caroline seemed to have gained a quiet self-assurance and serenity since she had admitted her alcoholism and started getting treatment. That awful wounded unhappiness was no longer evident in the depths of her brown eyes. She seemed to have taken control of her own life somewhat, no longer allowing Richard to dictate to her and they seemed much happier in each other’s company. The trouble with Caro was that she kept everything to herself. Maggie knew that Richard had been beating her friend. She had seen the bruises several times when Caroline’s guard was down after a few drinks. But when she had brought up the subject, Caroline had clammed up and remained utterly loyal to her husband. If Terry had ever raised a hand to her, he would have regretted it bitterly, Maggie thought, as she unlocked the car and drove in the direction of town.

  It was Friday, her day off, although now that she had Fiona to breastfeed she was a bit tied. However she had fed her just before she came out, and she wasn’t due a feed for a couple of hours, so she might as well make the most of it. Terry was very grudging about her day of freedom but Maggie was adamant. Being the person she was, she couldn’t sustain her anger with Terry about the affair with Ria. They spoke to each other, entertained and socialized. She had even allowed Terry to move back into their bedroom after the baby had been born, but she was through with putting herself last. And she religiously kept Fridays for herself. Sometimes she had nothing specific planned and would just meander about town, enjoying being alone. Terry had thought it was a passing phase, just like the novel-writing, but Maggie had stuck to her guns, determined to re-discover something of her old independent identity. She lived for her Fridays and today she was going to an exhibition she had been looking forward to since she had heard it was coming to Ireland.

  Driving south through Phibsboro, past the faded grandeur of the Broadstone and the elegant King’s Inns she hummed to herself. It was a lovely autumn day and the sun glittered on the rippling swirls of the Liffey tide as she crossed the Church Street Bridge. Where once the majesty of Christchurch had graced the skyline to her left in towering splendour, the view was now spoiled by a hideous monstrosity of American-style architecture. Maggie frowned, she thought that the architect who designed the Civic Offices had absolutely no sense of history or appreciation of visual beauty. Nor had the people who had given planning permission for the outrage despite widespread protests from the people of Dublin. The historic Wood Quay site of Viking Dublin had been bulldozed and the unsightly office block erected. An act of civic vandalism!

  Sighing, she turned right on to cheerful Thomas Street with its street sellers and colourful markets. The Liberties market was a great place for a bargain and Maggie often did some of her Christmas shopping there. It was a nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon and it reminded her of the many afternoons she had spent in The Village in New York. Driving past the imposing gates of Guinness’s Brewery, Maggie gave an appreciative sniff. The unique smell of hops permeated the air, rich and full-bodied, part and parcel of James’s Street. Finding a parking space she locked the car and strolled down to the Guinness Hop Store, which was now a vast exhibition centre. It was here that she had first seen the fantastic Norman Rockwell Collection in early summer and she had made a habit of visiting the centre every so often. She clattered across the cobbled street towards the building which had once stored the hops for the brewery but which was now a vast imaginative cultural centre.

  It was great! Today she didn’t feel a bit guilty about not being at her typewriter. Her novel was posted and winging its way to the magazine and she could dawdle along, secure in the knowledge that she had achieved something again after years of mental inertia. What would she write about next? Maybe she’d call into the ILAC library and get a few books on writing. God, it was great to have a few hours to herself!

  An hour and a half later, having thoroughly enjoyed the exhibition, Maggie was rushing up the marble steps to the Central Library in the huge ILAC shopping centre, a great new idea in her head for her new novel. She’d get a few books to research her background material and while she was there she must check to see if Terry Prone’s Write And Get Paid For It was in. She’d read the review in the paper and decided that it was just the book for her. It covered everything and was just what a beginner like herself needed. The last time she had looked it hadn’t been on the shelf, nor had there been anything else covering the subject, and the librarian she spoke to told her that anything about writing was always out. ‘It’s a very popular subject – you’ve no idea the amount of enquiries we get.’

  Maggie hoped that all these would-be novelists hadn’t entered for the same competition as she had. Briskly she walked towards the relevant section. Only one other person was there, a tall good-looking blond-haired young man, Maggie noted. Rather an Adonis in fact!

  Oh Maggie! She chided herself in amusement. He couldn’t be more than twenty five. What was getting into her these days? She seemed to be constantly fantazising about men. Sex with Terry seemed almost boring and mechanical, a far cry from the early days of their relationship. Somehow, after Ria, things didn’t feel quite the same. It must be all the passion that she was writing about that was causing her hormones to revolt. Sighing she scanned the shelves and saw the slim paperback she was looking for. Great. Reaching up for Terry Prone’s book, her fingers clashed with those of the young man beside her, as he too went to select the book.

  ‘Oh!’ exclaimed Maggie in surprise, dropping her hand. He must be a would-be novelist too.

  ‘Snap,’ said a cheerful voice above her left ear and Maggie found herself staring into a pair of smiling hazel eyes.

  ‘Please take it,’ he said politely.

  ‘But you were here first,’ Maggie pointed out.

  ‘We’re closing now!’ an authoritative voice announced, and the lights started to flicker.

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ announced the young man firmly. ‘You take the book this week and you can give it to me next week or the week after. I’m always in here around this time on Fridays.’

  ‘Thanks very much,’ Maggie said, gratified.

  ‘Not at all. We authors must stick together.’ He winked conspiratorially.

  ‘Oh, do you write too?’ It was out before she realized it and she could have kicked herself. Maggie was still a closet writer!

  ‘I’ve written a few bits and pieces,’ he responded matter-of-factly.

  ‘Did you ever get published?’ she asked eagerly, her embarrassment forgotten at meeting a fellow scribe.

  The young man grinned, displayed even white teeth. ‘Reader’s Digest published one article and the Evening Press another. That’s about t
he extent of it.’

  ‘At least it’s something!’ Maggie replied, impressed.

  ‘Closing now!’ came the voice of the authoritative one.

  ‘We’d better go,’ Maggie said hastily.

  ‘See you next week, then,’ came the calm rejoinder as the young man strode down the library, leaving her with her book about writing and getting paid for it, and a smile on her face.

  Two weeks later Maggie marched up the steps towards the library. She wondered would the young man be there. Their encounter had given her such a lift. It was nice to know that other people wrote and were successful. If only she could win that competition what an achievement that would be! She had a quick look around and felt an unaccountable sense of disappointment. He hadn’t come!

  Really, Maggie, grow up! she rebuked herself, half amused. My God, he was only a baby and she was a married woman in her thirties. Was she taking leave of her senses? She was deeply engrossed in a book about the Art of the American Indians when a deep voice said cheerfully, ‘Hi! Did you enjoy the book?’

  Maggie gave a start and turned to find her Adonis smiling down at her. She herself was a tall woman but he was easily six two. Suddenly her afternoon took on an extra sparkle. ‘Hello,’ she smiled feeling ridiculously light-hearted.

  ‘Well are you going to make your fortune?’ He indicated Write And Get Paid For It.

  Maggie laughed. ‘Not a hope! I found out all the things I did wrong, but it’s a very informative book. You’ll enjoy it. But I’m afraid I won’t get my novel published.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. ‘What exactly did you do wrong?’