City Girl
Authors: Patricia Scanlan
Patricia Scanlan was born in Dublin, where she still lives. Her books have sold worldwide and have been translated into many languages. Patricia is the series editor and a
contributing author to the
Open Door
series. She also teaches creative writing to second-level students and is involved in Adult Literacy.
Find out more by visiting Patricia Scanlan on Facebook.
Also by Patricia Scanlan
Apartment 3B
Finishing Touches
Foreign Affairs
Promises, Promises
Mirror Mirror
Francesca’s Party
Two for Joy
Double Wedding
Divided Loyalties
Coming Home
Trilogies
City Girl
City Lives
City Woman
Forgive and Forget
Happy Ever After
Love and Marriage
With All My Love
A Time for Friends
First published in Ireland by Poolbeg Press, 1990
This paperback edition published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2015
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Patricia Scanlan 1990
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Patricia Scanlan to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act,
1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London WC1X 8HB
Simon & Schuster Australia Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
PB ISBN: 978-1-47114-103-4
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47114-104-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
This book is very lovingly dedicated to my mother, father, sister and brothers, and to Gemma O’Connor, playwright and author, whose warm praise and constructive
criticism set me on the right track. Thank you, Gemma.
One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother
. . .
But the thousandth man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot – and after!
Rudyard Kipling
Contents
Prologue
Devlin Delaney gave a big wide yawn, stretched catlike for a moment and then jumped out of bed. Naked, she walked to her en suite bathroom and stepped under the shower,
enjoying the feel of the warm water as it cascaded down her body. Briskly she soaped herself, humming cheerfully.
She felt good. It was a beautiful day and the world was hers for the taking. Wrapping herself in a soft terry-towelling robe, Devlin padded out on to her balcony and surveyed the view that she
never tired of. It was still early, just after seven, and the air was fresh and tangy, the salt-laden breeze of the sea caressing her wet tangled hair, blowing it across her face. She loved this
time of day. Everything was fresh and young: even the city and the docks on the other side of the river seemed calmer, less frenetic and jaded at this hour of the morning. Only the milkman below
shared the sight of Dublin across the Liffey, soft and serene in the dappled pink hues of early morning.
Devlin liked living in Clontarf. It was so near the city and yet so picturesque, the vast panorama of Dublin Bay always a pleasure to view. To her left, Howth glowed like an enormous emerald,
mysterious, reserved, the sun-sparkled water surrounding it, giving the impression of thousands of glittering diamonds in a bed of velvet blue. She breathed the air deeply, enjoying the salty tang,
pulling it down into her lungs like a smoker does the first cigarette of the day. After a while she walked back into the bedroom to prepare herself to challenge the day and be ready for all it
held.
Devlin particularly enjoyed Fridays, starting off with her work-out class at eight. Although she exercised three mornings a week, she always preferred the Friday class. There was something
different about the Friday group, an added air of energy and excitement as people prepared for the excesses of the weekend ahead. She always left the Friday class buzzing with energy, much to the
dismay of her secretary.
Well, no doubt Liz would be relieved to know that today she would be leaving the office early. For the first time since CITY GIRL opened, its part-owner and boss was taking some time off.
God, she was looking forward so much to the weekend in Rosslare Harbour with the girls. It had been years since the three of them had been away together. Devlin’s aquamarine eyes sparkled
with anticipation at the thoughts of what was to come when Maggie, Caroline and she got together. But she was going to have a hectic few hours before she got away though and she’d better get
cracking. After dressing in a light pale pink tracksuit she packed some clean lingerie, her shoes and a clutch bag into an elegant holdall and took a cellophane-covered black and white Dior suit
out of the mirrored wardrobe that stretched the width of her spacious apple green and white bedroom. She had better look the part of the upwardly-mobile successful young business-woman, she mused
wryly, as today she was taking part in a programme on national TV about successful entrepreneurs.
She’d come a long way, that was for sure. Little did she think, as she grew up in the affluence of her Foxrock home, that she would live for a time in a high-rise flat in Ballymun. And
little did she think, when she was in Ballymun, that she would end up living in a penthouse apartment in Clontarf, a wealthy and successful young woman! Sadness darkened her eyes. All she had been
through. Had it been for nothing? Maybe today she would ring her mother. She had been putting it off for so long and Luke was right: it was time to forgive and forget.
Devlin smiled as she thought of Luke Reilly. Once she had thought she would never trust a man again. How gently he had pierced her armour. Luke had told her to make a new beginning and that was
exactly what she had done. It had been difficult, very difficult; there were always reminders. Only last week at a glittering social function, a smiling, elegant woman had tapped her on the
shoulder and said pleasantly, ‘You’re Devlin Delaney aren’t you? You used to work for my husband.’
Devlin had nearly died. Not Colin Cantrell-King’s wife! It couldn’t be. But it was, and then to her horror she had seen Colin heading in her direction, smiling suavely at her, hand
outstretched. ‘Devlin my dear! What a pleasure. It’s been so long. We must get together for old time’s sake,’ he gushed. Devlin thought she was going to be sick. The
bastard! How could he just stand there as though nothing had happened, smiling insincerely at her. Fortunately a photographer from one of the society pages of a popular magazine had spotted her and
whisked her away to take her photo, saving her the necessity of answering her former employer. The encounter had upset her. She supposed it was inevitable they should meet again in Dublin’s
tight-knit social scene, but even so, the memories of the past were so painful that it was worse than she had thought it would be.
Luke, eagle-eyed where she was concerned, had noticed that she was upset, although she thought she had disguised it well.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Devlin! I know you too well to be palmed off with “nothing,”’ he smiled. ‘It was that tall man over there, wasn’t it? Did he say something to upset you? Wait
a minute . . .’ He stared hard at Devlin. ‘That’s that bastard Cantrell-King isn’t it? I’ve been waiting to meet him for a long time!’
‘Luke!’ Devlin exclaimed, alarmed at the expression in his eyes and the set of his firm jaw.
‘It’s alright, Devlin. I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said reassuringly.
Devlin watched anxiously as he strode over to Colin and took him aside. She saw a deep flush suffuse her former boss’s face as he stared in startled horror at Luke. Then Luke was walking
back to her and she felt limp with relief. She’d been afraid of her life that Luke might have punched Colin.
‘What did you say to him?’ she asked heavily.
‘Take it easy, Devlin,’ Luke said, putting an arm around her and drawing her close. ‘I told him if he ever came within ten feet of you again he’d be singing soprano for
the rest of his life.’
Now, standing in her bedroom, Devlin smiled at the memory. Luke was so protective of her and she had to admit that it was a nice feeling after all the years of being on her own. Still, she had
managed, she had stood on her own two feet, made and paid for her mistakes and there was no looking back. Memories were strange things; they could spur you on or bring you down. Today was a day for
spurring, that was for definite, she decided briskly. Today was going to be a happy day. In a few hours she and the girls would head off for Rosslare and a weekend of unmitigated pleasure. She had
even decided to take the Monday off, so they had three whole days to themselves. The last time they had been away together had been the Shannon cruise just before Maggie’s wedding and it
seemed like a lifetime ago. It
was
a lifetime ago. She glanced at her watch. Seven forty-five. Time to leave. As Devlin stepped into the lift she wondered if Caroline was waiting for her
at the car.
Caroline Yates had been awake since before six, letting thoughts wander at will. Today would be a special day for her. A new beginning. It was going to be a lovely day, she
could feel it in her bones. It was time to get up and get dressed for the first item on her agenda for her special day; her work-out session at CITY GIRL, the most exclusive health studio in
Dublin.
When it had opened in a blaze of publicity nine months ago, Richard had made sure they were at the opening and had paid the substantial sum for her yearly subscription without a thought. Devlin
had not wanted to charge her, but Richard had insisted on paying. He was able to boast to his colleagues’ wives that his wife was a member of CITY GIRL. They were then as impressed as hell,
while his colleagues, who couldn’t afford the yearly subscription, could only fume.
In Richard’s eyes it was money well spent. Poor Richard; such petty things gave him immense satisfaction. If their photograph appeared in the society pages of the newspapers and the
up-market social magazines read by the trendy Dublin set they socialized with, he was delighted.
The last one had put him in a good humour for a week with its heading of ‘Mrs Caroline Yates, wife of well-known young legal eagle Richard Yates, wearing a beautiful Ib Jorgensen gown at
the Red Cross Ball.’ Or had it been the Law Society’s Gala, or so and so’s bash? She went to so many of them, she couldn’t remember.
God! How she hated the superficiality of it all. One day! She promised herself. One day she was going to tell them all with their ‘Hello Dahling absolutely smashing to see you,’
kiss, kiss, exactly what she thought of them. Caroline smiled wryly knowing she’d never have the guts!
Turning her head she observed her husband sleeping in the next bed. He slept tidily. He didn’t snore or rumple the covers, just lay neatly in bed breathing precisely and calmly. No noisy
slurping from Richard! He was so . . . ‘prissy’ was the word she was looking for. Even in bed he never had a hair out of place. Years ago, it seemed like another lifetime ago, she had
been so impressed by these exact qualities. His neat immaculately-groomed person, so different from your usual untidy Irishman. Always dressed in a well-cut, pressed suit. Tawny hair always neatly
styled, nails pared and white. She had thought him so sophisticated. But then she had been so desperate to get married, so terribly afraid of being alone and left on the shelf. Well she had made
her bed and she was lying in it, and lying in it alone too.
No! She wasn’t alone. Caroline had discovered that much and more in the last year. She had the girls, Devlin and Maggie, two of the best friends anyone could wish for. She had her family.
She had Charles. And despite all that had happened between them she was still living with her husband and was closer to him than she ever had been. If she had told him this time last year that she
was going to spend a long weekend with Devlin he would have beaten the daylights out of her. Of that there was no question!
Sighing at the memories she wondered what the reaction of The Set would have been if she had sent in a photograph detailing in glorious technicolour her profusion of bruises to one of the
gossipy mags that were so avidly devoured by their crowd: ‘Mrs Caroline Yates, wife of prominent solicitor Richard Yates displays the newest fashions of mauve, purple and yellow occasioned by
a savage beating given to her by her loving husband. Joining her in this particular fashion show are some other well-known ladies!’
