City Lives (26 page)

‘Orla’s very upset and I won’t have you upsetting my wife,’ Billy mumbled, taken aback at Maggie’s fury.

‘Well fuck Orla! And fuck you! What about
me
? What about
my
feelings?’ she demanded. ‘What am I? Good old Maggie-Doormat Ryan, here for everyone to walk all
over? Is that what you and Orla think, Billy? Let me tell you one thing. I’ve given your children more dinners and done more homework with them than
you
ever have. You’re so
busy out working all day. So how dare you come into my house with a fucking
attitude!
’

Billy swallowed hard, his eyes blinking rapidly behind his glasses, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. ‘There’s no need for such crude language,’ he ventured
weakly.

‘Is that right?’ snapped Maggie sarcastically. ‘Says who? Let me tell you, Billy Noonan. There is need.
My
need. So fuck you and your sensitive ears. I’ve heard
you curse a lot worse when your team is losing a match on TV. Don’t give me that crap. And furthermore how dare you have the effrontery to knock on my door at this hour of the night and come
into my house and have a go at me? You tell Orla Noonan to fight her own battles from now on, if she has the guts to. Now get out of my house. I’m a busy woman. I don’t have time for
this nonsense.’

Maggie marched over to the door and held it open. She had an immense urge to kick Billy in his plump well-padded ass, as he slunk out the door followed by Terry.

She stood, pumped full of adrenaline, as Terry opened the front door for the other man. PMT was a great thing to have when you were letting fly and giving someone a piece of your mind, she
thought with satisfaction as she heard Terry mutter something about it all blowing over.

In your dreams, you faithless bastard, she thought viciously. It was his turn next.

‘God almighty, Maggie, that was no way to speak to a neighbour! Your language is atrocious,’ Terry fumed as he came back into the room.

‘Well thank
you
! You gutless bastard. Thanks a million for standing up for me and taking my side. It does my heart good to know what a wonderful supportive husband I have.’
Maggie turned on him savagely. ‘How dare you tell me in front of Billy Noonan that I shouldn’t have called that sly cow a liar? How dare you, Terry! You had no business undermining me
in front of him—’

‘For God’s sake, Maggie, what the bloody hell has got into you these days? You’re like a bloody demon,’ Terry accused heatedly. Maggie marched up to him and eyeballed
him.

‘I’m sick of you. That’s what’s wrong with me. I don’t want to be married to you. I wish I could leave you. But I can’t because of the kids. You leave all the
rearing of the children to me. You don’t pull your weight in the house. You do fuck-all housework. You don’t give me a chance to work at
my
career. You don’t even take it
seriously. You invited the Al Shariffs to stay for a week without even asking me. You—’

‘Oh shut the fuck up, Maggie,’ Terry snarled. ‘I’ve had enough of this shit. If you’re so fed up of it all why don’t
you
walk? Why don’t you go
and get a place of your own on your fabulous royalties and see what it’s like then, having to pay a mortgage. I’ll get someone in to look after the kids. Do you think it’s a
joyride for me, living with you? Well believe me, it’s as much an ordeal for me as it is for you.’ He jabbed a finger in her face. ‘Look what you’ve turned into. Your
mother. A whinging, whining, moaning nag! You don’t even turn me on any more. Having sex with you is like trying to ride a sack of potatoes. That’s about as exciting as it gets
nowadays.’

‘Ha! Do you hear who’s talking,’ Maggie raged, incensed. ‘Having sex with you is like having a withered old walrus on top of me. You’re not man enough to satisfy me
any more. You haven’t in years. Go and treat yourself to some Viagra before you talk to me about sex.’

Terry flushed a dull deep red. Maggie knew she’d hit him where it hurt. But she didn’t care. It had been deliberate. And a low shot. He’d always prided himself on his sexual
prowess and his abilities as a lover. She wanted to hurt him as much as he had hurt her. And that was
exactly
the way to do it.

‘And you know something else . . . dear . . .’ she added sarcastically. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Those children upstairs are going to live an untroubled life in this
house until they’ve left school and have got jobs for themselves. But in the meantime, don’t you ever come near me again. You can go and sleep with the potatoes out in the shed for all
I care.’

She stalked out of the room, head high.

Terry glared after her. Right now he felt as though he hated her. What a bitch! There was nothing wrong with him or his performance. Give him the right woman and he’d show her. Someone
like . . . he cast around wildly for someone who’d turn him on. Alma . . . yes . . . Alma Al Shariff was a
real
woman. Not like Maggie.

What did she expect him to do? Stay at home and be a Mrs Mops? Someone had to earn a crust to pay the bills. Why could she never understand that? Why did she expect him to turn around and do
housework and the like when he came home from work? He’d spent all day slogging his guts out to provide her and the children with a standard of living that was the envy of many of her friends
and neighbours.

Housework and kids were primarily a woman’s responsibility but Maggie had never understood that, Terry thought furiously. Well, she’d better understand it. It was her problem.
Because from now on he was going to spend a lot less time at home. Who’d want to spend time with a menopausal old shrew? He was going to put himself out and about once more. A nice little
mistress would do him all the good in the world. She’d appreciate him. De-stress him. Give him a few hours of R&R. He’d make it very clear from the start that she couldn’t
expect marriage. He’d tell her that he couldn’t break up the home. There was no way he was going through the Ria Kirby experience again. Terry scowled as he thought of his ex-lover.
She’d practically demanded that he marry her. Once her bloom had worn off she’d been as much a shrew as Maggie was.

One marriage in a lifetime was enough. In fact once was too bloody much, Terry thought glumly as he poured himself a stiff whiskey. Keep his exits free and clear but take what was offered. That
was his motto. Maggie’d had her chance. Now she’d blown it. That was her tough luck.

Maggie felt exhilarated as she stood under the shower a little while later. The pretence was over. She didn’t have to put on a front any more. She’d told Terry what she thought of
him and he’d returned the compliment. It was over.

The relief of it was indescribable. She could move forward now with some degree of certainty. She no longer had to be a ‘wife’ to Terry. She didn’t have to make the effort any
more. She didn’t have to have sex with him ever again out of a sense of duty or routine. She knew to expect nothing of him from now on. That was a liberation in its own way.

She wrapped a towel around herself and wiped the steam from the mirror. She looked tired. The lines around her eyes and mouth seemed much more pronounced. And she was carrying a half-stone too
much weight. She did look about as sexy as a sack of potatoes, she conceded wryly, and she felt about as sexy as them as well.

She’d start cutting down, she promised herself. It was just that when she was under stress, she ate. Comfort eating. She could write a book about it and it would be a damn sight easier
than writing her novel. She really should spend a bit more time at City Girl, she thought regretfully, as she felt the thickening of her waist and dried the soft swelling of her untoned tummy.
She’d been so fit and healthy once upon a time. She’d like to get back to that. The gym regime was certainly starting to work on Terry. And he was watching what he ate. How long would
this fad last. He’d never stick it over Christmas.

Maggie got into bed and switched out the light. She lay in the dark, her mind racing. The sooner she finished her book the sooner she’d get a portion of her advance on delivery. She could
use that to get the attic converted. That’s what she’d do, she decided. She’d get the attic converted into a lovely little studio for herself. She’d have her space to write
in. And she’d put a bed up there. As far as the children were concerned she and Terry would still share a bedroom but once the three of them were in bed, she’d go up to her little haven
and they’d be none the wiser. She’d even get a portable TV up there. Terry could have their big double bed all to himself, she thought nastily. The sooner the better.

She was going to finish that damn book come hell or high water. Forget about putting it on the back burner. Once it was done, she could collapse in a heap and take a break. And for the next one
she’d have her attic room and space from Terry. It was definitely time to take some control back in her life. Maggie was asleep in minutes. She had the best sleep she’d had in
months.

The following week she drove out to Enterprise Publishing for her first meeting with her new editor. She had another fifty pages written. She was delighted with herself. She’d got up at
six every morning and had an hour and a half of uninterrupted writing. It was exhausting, but she kept pushing herself. The more she got done before the Al Shariffs came, the better. The sooner she
got her advance payment, the sooner she could get the builders in.

It was strange not to be meeting Marcy. Maggie felt a pang as she entered the small car park. Marcy had been such a support. Somehow she couldn’t imagine herself having the same rapport
with the youthful Miranda.

She noticed Jeremy’s Merc and Claudette’s sporty coupé parked near the entrance. The odd couple were in residence, she thought with a grin, as she hurried across the
tarmacadam in the teeth of a howling gale and lashing rain.

Joan the receptionist had the door open for her.

‘Don’t want one of our precious authors getting wet,’ she laughed.

‘Thanks, Joan. I’ve a meeting with Miranda Quigley.’ Maggie ran her fingers through her windswept hair. ‘There’s been a few changes, I hear.’

‘You can say that again,’ the middle-aged woman said dryly. ‘And not for the better either. I’ve never known such penny-pinching. Madame has taken over the reins with
gusto. Here she comes,’ Joan murmured.

‘Aah, Maggie. How lovely to see you,’ Claudette gushed as she sashayed down the stairs, followed by Jeremy. She was wearing a cream pure wool suit with black accessories and a black
pashmina scarf thrown casually over her shoulders. She looked stunning, the epitome of French chic. ‘How is the book coming along?’

‘Fine,’ Maggie said politely, surprised at the other woman’s apparent warmth. On the few occasions that Maggie had encountered Claudette previously, Claudette had greeted her
in a bored and offhand way. This seemed completely out of character.

‘We must take you to lunch someday, mustn’t we Jeremy?’ she said in her attractive accented English.

‘Ah . . . yes . . . yes of course, darling,’ Jeremy agreed. ‘We’ll be giving
Exposé
a big push. Dumpbins. Posters. The lot,’ he added loftily.

‘Lucky old
Exposé
,’ Maggie said lightly.

‘What . . . what?’ blustered Jeremy, unused to authors being so dismissive about projected sales plans.

‘My novel is called
Betrayal
, Jeremy,’ Maggie said evenly.

‘Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Of course, Maggie.’ Jeremy peered over the tops of his bifocals. ‘We have so many books coming out. It’s hard to keep track. Just keep on writing. Have
you met Miranda yet? A wonderful girl. Perfect editor for you. Young and with it. Keep you fresh for our younger market. Very important. Very important.’

‘Personally I’d have preferred an editor with some experience,’ Maggie said tartly.

‘What . . . what! What do you mean by that?’ Jeremy bristled.

‘Miranda tells me that this is her first stint in editorial. I would have preferred a more experienced editor,’ Maggie retorted.

‘Miranda Quigley has the best credentials. We wouldn’t have taken her on otherwise,’ Claudette interjected coolly before moving towards the door.

‘We’ll see,’ Maggie replied noncommittally.

Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now, now, Maggie. We’ve never let you down. We’ve done very well by you. Everything will be fine. Now we must have a nice long gossipy lunch some
day soon. Have you ever dined in Guilbaud’s? Or perhaps
Les Frères Jacques
? I’ll treat you to something really special,’ he announced expansively.

‘I’ve been to both of them. Yes.’ Maggie was damned if she was going to let Jeremy Wilson patronize her.
Something really special
indeed! As though she were some
impressionable greenhorn.

‘Good, good. We must arrange it.’ Jeremy wasn’t really listening as he progressed across the foyer in Claudette’s perfumed wake. He never listened to people. Especially
people he considered his inferiors. And they were many.

He threw his conversation at them like pearls before swine, Maggie reflected in amusement. She’d had the ‘Jeremy treatment’ before.

‘Miranda is ready to see you now,’ Joan murmured diplomatically.

‘Aren’t I the lucky one?’ Maggie arched an eyebrow.

Joan’s laugh echoed behind her as Maggie pushed through the swing doors to the editorial department. Three doors down to the left she stopped and took a deep breath. Miranda’s
name-plate, gleaming, had replaced Marcy’s. Upon seeing it, Maggie felt highly indignant on her former editor’s behalf. Marcy really had been treated badly by the company. Still, that
wasn’t the youthful Miranda’s fault, Maggie chided herself. Maybe Miranda would surprise her and turn out to be a superb editor.

She knocked politely on the door.

‘Come in,’ chirruped Miranda gaily.

Maggie walked in and in spite of herself her jaw sagged slightly at the sight of her new editor.

Kooky! was the first word that sprang to mind. Miranda looked about sixteen years old. She wore a pink mini. Pink and green striped socks over tights. A green belly top and a long chunky black
cardigan. She had a small blue stud in her nose. A mass of black curly hair framed a small heart-shaped face. Wide grey eyes blinked earnestly from behind round silver-framed glasses. She wore blue
glitter nail varnish.