City Girl (13 page)

‘Why does it have to be you?’ Devlin had asked quietly. Caroline had no answer.

Near the end of her third and last year in college Caroline had let herself be persuaded to attend a class reunion. By now her figure had become so slim as to be almost boyish, her small
heartshaped face dominated by wide dark-lashed brown eyes. Devlin dragged her to get her unruly black hair cut and styled and the hairdresser, one of the most expensive in Dublin, took a good long
look at her and murmured something that sounded like ‘Audrey Hepburn eat your heart out,’ and then proceeded to scalp her.

Speechless, Caroline had eyed the complete stranger in the mirror. Was it really her? With the feather-cut hairstyle that now framed her face and made her eyes look enormous, she had a gamine
yet sophisticated look and after the initial shock she was really more than pleased. Devlin had made the expedition a real day out for them. They had gone for lunch in the Westbury. It was the
first time Caroline had been in the luxurious hotel and as discreet waiters took their orders Caroline sat back in her chair and sighed happily. ‘This is really living, Dev! Imagine being
able to do this all the time? I’d love it.’

‘You should do it more often, Caro,’ her friend retorted, wishing that Caroline could develop more confidence in herself and, more important, a sense of her own worth as a person. It
gave Devlin great pleasure to watch her friend enjoy the delicious meal. Usually Caroline shopped in Henry Street on the other side of the city, never venturing south of the Liffey, but today
Devlin was determined that her friend was going to splash out. That was why she had taken her to an expensive hair salon. Her hair had cost thirty pounds but it was worth every penny. Now she was
going to take her to buy something expensively exclusive to wear at the reunion.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Caroline queried innocently.

‘Oh nothing at all,’ murmured Devlin airily. ‘Come on, finish your coffee and we’ll go and get your dress.’

That night, dressed in a body-hugging soft black angora dress with a flamboyant royal blue cowl neckline to lesson the severity, Caroline stood in front of the mirror and gazed at herself in
awe. Gone was the dumpy dowdy lump of lard of three years ago. In its place a small slender elegant sophisticate stared back at her from the mirror. Devlin was practically dancing around the room
with delight.

‘My God Caroline, you’re stunning! You’re so small-boned, look at your face. I’d love cheekbones like yours!’ She scowled momentarily. ‘What a shame that
Bollox O’Brien has emigrated.’

‘Devlin!’ Caroline never failed to be shocked by her outspoken mentor.

‘Tsk. Oh I know, Caro, but it describes the cretin perfectly,’ Devlin said, unrepentant about her description of the boy who had stood Caroline up that fateful night so long ago.
Arranging the cowl so that it fell perfectly around Caroline’s shapely neck she said firmly, ‘My dear girl if I catch you in anything but tight-fitting clothes from now on, I’ll
murder you.’ She laughed. ‘In fact, Twiggs, I’m going to make sure you never get into those baggy jeans and sweatshirts again.’ Flinging open the wardrobe door, she dragged
out an armful of the offending articles.

‘Oh wait Dev! I mean you can’t! I’ve nothing else to wear.’

Devlin nodded crossly. ‘Well, it’s about time you got some new clothes. My God, you slave around here for nothing!’

Caroline had to agree, although she hated when Devlin made comments about the way her family treated her. She knew that in his own way her father loved and depended on her: he just didn’t
think about buying new clothes. Since his wife died he just had no interest in anything and the boys were too busy with their own lives to worry about her. Besides, the thoughts of giving away her
trusty baggy old jeans and sweatshirts caused a vague feeling of panic to flutter in her stomach. They concealed her new slenderness and she could hide in them. There was no way she was ready to
flaunt her new body. Her figure might have changed considerably but her self-confidence was as non-existent as ever.

‘Listen, Dev, I’ve only two months to go before I get the degree. When I get a job I’ll buy a whole new wardrobe. OK?’

Reluctantly Devlin surrendered her spoils. ‘And I’m coming with you,’ she warned as they made their way downstairs to say goodnight. Caroline’s father just lifted his
head over the top of his paper and his eyes widened slightly.

‘Very nice. Don’t be too late,’ he said mildly.

‘I won’t,’ she assured him. She really didn’t want to go to this reunion: she had never been popular at school, being far too shy and introverted for anyone to have taken
notice of her, and because of her weight she had never played games or gone to any of the school dances. The nuns had been kind to her after her mother died, often asking how she was coping and how
was her father. Apart from that, school had been a nightmare and even now she could still cringe at some of the memories of her schooldays.

Valentine’s Day had been the worst. The trauma of going into class and being asked maliciously by one horrible girl how many Valentine cards she had got, had been soul destroying. One year
in desperation she had sent herself one but even then at the last minute her nerve failed her and she left it lying in her school bag as she underwent her annual interrogation. So why was she going
to this reunion? Why had she let Devlin persuade her to go?

‘Listen to me,’ her friend had said. ‘You look like a million dollars. Take a deep breath and walk into that room. Tell them you are studying nuclear physics or something. Make
them take notice of you. It’s easy!’ Devlin, of course, would take something like a reunion in her stride.

As she slowly approached the Gresham Hotel, where they were holding the function, Caroline could feel all her poise evaporating. Butterflies as large as elephants did tangos up and down her
insides. It would be just like her to faint and cause a scene, she thought in self-disgust, as she stopped to view herself in a plate glass window.

‘You look fine,’ she reassured herself. Catching sight of a tough-looking young fellow staring at her, she clutched her bag against her and walked briskly along O’Connell
Street. The sun was beginning to set, its dusky pink hues giving a softer edge to the harsh neon-lit façades of the capital’s premier street. Queues were beginning to form outside the
Savoy and, feeling lonely, Caroline watched the couples holding hands as they laughed and talked and were entertained by a wild-haired busker playing a jaunty tune. She walked on and taking a deep
breath mounted the steps and found herself in the elegant foyer of the Gresham Hotel. The subdued air of genteel graciousness calmed her as she watched white-jacketed waiters pouring coffee from
silver pots into delicate china cups for daintily sipping ladies. Catching sight of herself in a sparkling mirror she saw that in spite of her interior chaos, her exterior appeared calm and
controlled. Lifting her chin and forcing one foot to follow the other Caroline walked into the room where the event was taking place.

The hum of rampant gossip assaulted her ears as thirty-five young women who hadn’t seen each other for three years caught up with each other’s lives.

‘And you know something else? She was three months gone when she got married . . . !’

‘You’re not serious, Valerie! And she was such a Holy Mary!’

Well, Val hadn’t changed, Caroline thought. Still dishing the dirt. Swallowing hard she took a glass of wine from a bored-looking waiter and edged her way to the far side of the room.
Nobody had recognized her yet and she was content just to listen.

‘Isn’t Pamela a walking bitch? Imagine doing a thing like that on her best friend. I couldn’t believe it.’

Caroline was agog! What had Pamela done on Thérèse? It was obvious they weren’t talking. Thérèse was on the other side of the room with her back pointedly
turned on her former best friend. Caroline moved towards the window, passing another little knot of chattering young women.

‘Would you look at Deirdre? Did you ever see anything like the hair? You can see the black roots from here. It’s dreadfully tarty! And did you hear about Nuala? She’s over
there by the door. She’s living with Aileen. They’re gay! Imagine!’

There was a ripple of excitement at this piece of information.

‘You mean that utter snob Aileen Corey? Crikey, I wonder what they make of that in her “cultural backwater”?’ A gale of laughter followed that biting remark. Caroline
tried to suppress a grin. She remembered Aileen Corey very well. A most pretentious girl who, when asked where she lived, answered coolly, ‘Dunboyne, a cultural backwater.’ There was
much sniggering in the class at this remark which was quite unoriginal, having been lifted from an interview with an Irish writer. It was typical of Aileen, always out to try and impress. So Nuala
and Aileen were living together. Well, it wasn’t really anybody’s business. Their personal lives were their own affair. The idea of their gayness did not offend Caroline as it did some
of the others. For all Caroline’s introverted shyness, there was a maturity and tolerance about her that made her a most non-judgemental person.

‘I hear Moira and Michelle have emigrated. Honest to God, if I have to go to one more farewell party I’ll cry,’ she heard a soft voice say. Caroline smiled. The soft voice
belonged to Anne Morrell, one of the few girls in the class who had ever passed the time of day with her, but she was too shy to go over to her and it was obvious no-one recognized her. So Moira
and Michelle had emigrated. It wasn’t surprising. With mass-unemployment it was the only option many young people had, and most families had been touched by the spectre of emigration. Even
Declan, her own brother, had been one of the thousands who had applied for one of the precious American visas allocated to Ireland. What she would do if she didn’t get a job herself Caroline
did not dare think about. She’d have to go on the dole.

A voice to her right caught her attention and she felt the old familiar dread as she recognized the harsh nasal tones of Ruth Saunders. Ruth had been the notice-box of the class, always hogging
the limelight with her sharp sarcastic wit that had often flicked Caroline on the raw. Ruth had been her malicious tormentor every Valentine’s Day. She had taken a sarcastic delight in
embarrassing her and for a moment Caroline almost felt as if she was back in the big airy classroom on the green corridor in Eccles Street.

‘I don’t see any sign of Nellie the Elephant, do you?’ she was saying derisively. ‘She’s probably entered the convent.’

Anger surged through Caroline. The miserable bitch, standing there so arrogant, smirking and flaunting her pregnant belly as if to say ‘Well I’ve got a man – so there!’
How dare she assume that Caroline was only capable of retiring to the religious life and anyway, what was wrong with the religious life? Some of the nuns who taught her had been the most fulfilled
and happy women she had met. Many of them had been far better educated and seen far more of life and the world than she or Ruth Saunders ever would.

Taking a deep calming breath Caroline turned to face her old tormentor.

‘I think it’s a case of the kettle calling the pot black,’ she drawled coolly. ‘How are you Ruth?’

The horrified amazement, the ugly flush of embarrassment that mottled the other girl’s puffy face were a sweet revenge for Caroline.

‘Are you . . . I . . . I mean you can’t be Caroline Stacey,’ she stuttered.

‘I assure you I am,’ Caroline responded lightly. Gosh, this wasn’t so bad after all, she thought, as her quaking subsided.

Deriving an immense amount of pleasure from the other girl’s mortification she decided to press home her psychological triumph. After her years of misery it felt so good to be the cause of
her adversary’s discomfort. She observed casually, ‘I see you’re married, Ruth. When is the happy event?’

Ruth’s little pig eyes glowed in delighted superiority over her spinster sister. She gave a shrill little giggle. ‘Oh, Peter swept me off my feet. You remember Peter?’

Caroline nodded drily. Peter was as quiet as Ruth was sharp and bossy and there was no doubt who wore the pants in that marriage.

‘The baby’s due in two months’ time. Are you dating yourself?’

Their eyes met through the curtain of their mutual antagonism.

‘Oh yes,’ Caroline responded airily. ‘My boyfriend Mark is in Saudi at the moment. He’s a nuclear physicist. I may go out myself later in the year to join him. Who
knows?’ She gave Ruth a cold smile. ‘I do want to pursue my own career. I think it’s very important for a woman to excel in her own field, don’t you?’

‘Oh very,’ echoed Ruth, completely deflated.

Caroline drained her glass and placed it on a convenient table. Every hunger pang she had suffered during her diet had been worth it for this glorious moment of pleasure. She could now leave her
class reunion with her head held high.

‘I really must be off, I’m meeting someone later, it was nice renewing old acquaintances.’ Giving a casual wave she sauntered through the crowd, aware that the noise level had
dropped as the others had eavesdropped avidly on their conversation. She would be the topic of conversation when she left but she didn’t care. Let them talk! She felt compensated for all her
years of fat misery. Ruth had envied her . . . it was there in her eyes and that had been the sweetest thing of all.

With her head held high she walked through the door of the function room, across the foyer and out on to O’Connell Street and the blessedly cool night air.

There was always an air of electricity about Dublin’s main street at night. Couples, happy in each other’s company, strolled hand in hand or gazed through jewellers’ windows at
sparkling engagement rings. Caroline passed under Clery’s clock, a traditional meeting place for lovers, and observed several people waiting for their dates. Some were discreetly looking at
their watches, little anxious frowns beginning to mar their made-up features. Others stared fixedly ahead at the GPO as if it were the most fascinating piece of architecture they had ever set eyes
on. Two young itinerants taunted a girl who had obviously been waiting a while. ‘Hey Missus, has yer fella stood ya up? Hard cheese!’ The girl blushed bright pink and Caroline felt for
her. She knew only too well the pain of being stood up. One young man tried vainly to conceal the large bunch of flowers he carried. He looked utterly uncomfortable. Typical Irishman, thought
Caroline glumly, never having been the recipient of a bunch of flowers from a man, typically Irish or not. Her high had begun to dissipate as she was once again confronted by her manless state.