City Woman (8 page)

One Sunday evening, Luke had called at the penthouse before flying back to London, to find her surrounded by papers as she worked on costings for shops in the mall.

‘Devlin, I’ve been in business for a lot longer than you, and one thing I learned was that only fools give everything they’ve got to a business seven days a week. I did it
myself for too long, Devlin. Don’t make the same mistake. You need to unwind and relax and have time for yourself. You need to be able to set one day aside each week and say,
‘‘this is for me . . . and—’’ ’ he paused, eyes twinkling, ‘ ‘‘—me.’’ ’

Devlin had ignored his advice until during the winter she had come down with a terrible dose of flu. She had had to spend three days in bed and for the rest of a week she was fit only for
pottering around, flopping in front of the TV and catching up on the books, magazines and newspapers that had accumulated in an untidy pile in her bedroom. It was the longest period she had ever
spent continuously in the penthouse and that week it was no longer a place where she slept and had the occasional meal: for the first time since she had bought it, the penthouse became home. She
was quite enjoying doing nothing, she confessed to Maggie, who had called to visit, laden down with soups and casseroles and scones for the invalid.

‘You shouldn’t have had to wait until you were sick, you prat!’ Maggie retorted. ‘Try relaxing at weekends like us ordinary mortals.’

From then on Devlin had made a conscious decision to put City Girl out of her mind on Sundays and relax totally. It had taken a bit of time and a lot of effort of will but now she was an expert.
If everything went all right today maybe she’d be able to have her parents over occasionally for a meal on Sundays. She considered the possibilities as she strode into the kitchen to put the
finishing touches to the crème brûlée. It was ridiculous, she thought, as she crushed the caramel and arranged it decoratively around the rest of the dessert, to have
butterflies in her stomach because her own mother was coming to visit.

She sighed, absentmindedly popping a piece of the caramel into her mouth. Despite the fact that Lydia Delaney had told her that she was an adopted child and that her real mother was
Lydia’s dead sister, Devlin would always think of Lydia as her mother. Not a great mother perhaps: a mother who had wanted nothing to do with her when she had found that Devlin was pregnant,
a mother who had made the lives of her husband and daughter a misery with her binge-drinking. It was something that only the two of them knew about as Lydia wouldn’t dream of getting drunk in
front of her society friends. Lydia had her faults all right; nevertheless as far as Devlin was concerned Lydia was the only mother she had ever known and after all this time, she hoped fervently
that things could improve between them.

Devlin slid the completed brûlée into the fridge and walked over to the cooker where her homemade tomato and tarragon soup was wafting out an enticing aroma. Blanched orange strips
and freshly chopped tarragon were ready as garnish for the soup. In ten minutes she’d boil the water to steam the new potatoes and broccoli and diced carrots. The meal was under control: that
at least was something. Deftly, she sliced the brown bread. Superquinn brown bread was one of her greatest weaknesses and she would normally have buttered herself a slice and eaten it as she cooked
lunch. But today she couldn’t face it. In spite of her best intentions, her stomach was tied up in knots. It was so long since she had seen Lydia, well over a year, and their last meeting had
been one of bitterness: Devlin had lain injured and devastated in a hospital bed, recovering from the accident that had killed her daughter and aunt. She had told her mother she didn’t want
to see her again.

For so long, Devlin had carried the bitterness inside, despite the best efforts of her father, Gerry, to reconcile her with her mother. It was only in the last few months that her anger and
bitterness had dissipated somewhat. Luke, who had been so close to his own father before he died, had tried to make her see that in her own way Lydia had suffered as much as Devlin. She had mulled
over his words and at her weekly lunches with her father had gradually started asking after Lydia. Gerry had told her that after the accident she had gone in to St Gabriel’s in Cabinteely for
a couple of weeks of psychiatric care. She wouldn’t admit that she was an alcoholic but at least she had stopped drinking and hadn’t been on a binge in months. The estrangement with
Devlin was causing her great anguish, Gerry had told his daughter, and Lydia blamed herself totally.

Coming to the decision to phone her mother and arrange to meet her had not been easy, but after she had taken the step, Devlin had felt a keen sense of relief. Lydia had been
uncharacteristically nervous on the phone, something that surprised Devlin. There had been a stunned silence when Devlin had said, ‘Hello, Mum,’ and when she had suggested they meet for
lunch, Devlin realized that Lydia was crying. This had shocked her. Her mother was not a person who showed her emotions easily, let alone cried. At first, Devlin had planned to meet in a
restaurant, but then impulsively she had suggested that Lydia come to lunch in the penthouse. Thinking about it afterwards, Devlin decided it had been the right thing to do: it was much more
personal than meeting in a restaurant.

She walked from her grey-and-green kitchen into the lounge and tried to view it as Lydia would, seeing it for the first time. Her mother had superb taste and the family home in Foxrock was a
model. She hadn’t done too badly herself, Devlin decided, as she viewed her large bright lounge with its French doors framed by gold brocade curtains that made the room cosy in winter. The
gold of the curtains was picked up in the cream and gold of the carpet. Two sofas in cream chintz with hints of peach were placed in an L-shape by the fire and in front of them she had a lovely
square glass-topped coffee table on which, that day, reposed another vase of freesias. The alcoves on each side of the chimney breast contained fitted cream bookshelves on one side and a television
and video unit and stereo deck in the other. Slim peach candlesticks and wide pleated peach lampshades stood in the corners of the room and at night their glow gave an atmosphere of comforting
warmth. It was a feminine room, light and airy in summer, warm and cosy in winter.

The dining-room was decorated in pink and grey with elegant black ash furniture. Devlin used it only on the rare occasions she had a formal dinner. When Maggie and Caroline visited, they always
ate in the kitchen unless they were guests at one of Devlin’s dinner parties.

She slipped into the bedroom and cast her eye around. The restful green-and-white room with its matching en suite bathroom was looking far tidier than normal. No longer did sheets of figures and
files from the office clutter up the top of the fitted drawers that edged two walls. The panelled doors of her Sliderobes had been dusted and polished and the mirror panels gleamed and sparkled
after a good application of Windolene. Devlin had been shocked at the dust that had come off the screen of the portable television set which sat on top of the long bank of drawers and, shamed, she
had promised herself that she was going to polish and dust at least once a week.

The second bedroom, decorated in cream and yellow, had got the same treatment and at least, thought Devlin in satisfaction, her spring cleaning, though a tad late, had been completed. Devlin
straightened the bedspread that matched the curtains and lampshades and, spotting some dust on the top of the headboard, she picked a cream tissue out of the box on the bedside locker and flicked
it off.

She caught sight of herself in the mirrored wardrobe. Was she too casually dressed, she wondered, eyeing her white cotton trousers and cerise shirt dubiously. Her sleek blonde bob would come as
a surprise to her mother, she thought with some amusement. Anxious not to be seen as a bimbo Devlin had taken stock of her public image. The reappraisal had been occasioned by the gossip columnist
of the
Sunday Echo
, who had written a piece headed, ‘
Blonde! Beautiful! But has she the Brains to keep it going?
’ that had enraged her. Gone was the flowing blonde
mane, gone were the two-tight and too-short skirts. Now she wore well-tailored suits and skirts that ended barely above the knee for business meetings or interviews. She had to admit ruefully that
the image she presented was of someone older and more sophisticated than her mid-twenties. But then that was the business. At home, she much preferred casual clothes and used very little
make-up.

Maybe she should put on a bit of lipstick and mascara. Lydia, who was always perfectly groomed, might think she did not consider her mother worth the bother if she used no make-up at all. A
lightly tanned face with troubled aquamarine eyes, a full determined mouth and good bone structure stared back at her from the mirror. She could see a line at each side of her mouth that
hadn’t been there this time last year, and when she smiled she noticed faint creases around her eyes. It didn’t bother her: she had earned them; she had gone from being a spoilt,
immature, selfish young girl to a thoughtful and very independent woman.

Having a baby and losing her had had the most profound effect on Devlin. She knew she would never ever get over Lynn’s death. A wave of despair swept through her even at the thought of it.
Her heartache had a physicality about it that only someone who had experienced it could understand. There were times when the desire to hold a toddler in her arms was overpowering. Playing with
Mimi and Shona, Maggie’s two little girls, was such a bittersweet experience. There wasn’t much difference between Lynn’s and Mimi’s age – just a few months. They
could have been pals and grown up to enjoy a great sustaining friendship like their mothers had. When she saw Mimi and heard her chatting away nineteen to the dozen and saw the personality she was
developing, she couldn’t help wondering what Lynn would have been like at that stage.

It was so painful that Devlin rarely allowed herself to think of her daughter. She buried the grief deep inside, keeping herself totally occupied with City Girl. She had kept a few of
Lynn’s clothes, including the dress she was wearing the day of the accident. She had never washed it. Sometimes when the ache was too much to bear and wouldn’t be denied, she would take
it out and bury her face in it, smelling the sweet talcy scent of her daughter. ‘Oh God, why did you do this to me? After all I went through to have her? I could have aborted her and I
didn’t. Why did you take her away from me?’ It was an anguished howl that came from her lips and she sank to her knees and bowed her head and wept. Why did this have to happen today,
just when she needed to be in control! Devlin took several deep shuddering breaths. Her mother would be here any minute. What would she think if she saw her like this?

She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and red-rimmed eyes. She sat on the edge of the bath, holding a damp cloth to her face, and when she took it away it was covered in
lipstick and mascara. She redid her make-up and brushed her hair and soon she looked all right again. Devlin tidied up the bathroom and went back to the kitchen to boil the water for the potatoes.
What was she going to talk to her mother about? There was such a chasm between them.

Well, at least the view and the gardens that surrounded the apartment complex would be a talking point. Lydia had a great interest in gardening: her own looked good enough to feature in a glossy
magazine. They could talk about Gerry, too, about City Girl, maybe. Lydia had never been to the complex. Devlin would like to offer her membership. Many of her mother’s friends had joined and
they were always asking when Lydia was going to take the plunge. There were loads of things they could discuss, Devlin reassured herself as she buttered the brown bread. Honestly, it was pathetic
having to think of things to talk to her mother about. How she envied Maggie her relationship with Nelsie. Nelsie might moan a bit and take advantage now and then but at heart they had a truly
close relationship, and whenever Devlin had been in their company she had enjoyed listening to them natter. She and Lydia had never had that kind of a relationship, even when things were all right
between them. Now they had no relationship to speak of. Would today help? It was hard to know.

Glancing at the clock on the wall she saw that it was almost twelve forty-five. Lydia should be here any time now. They had agreed that she would arrive between twelve-thirty and one. Well, at
least everything was organized. The soup was simmering, the bread buttered, the potatoes and vegetables ready for steaming and the salmon steaks for popping in the pan. The dessert was in the
fridge and the wine was chilling nicely. Just as well she had come home at eleven, though; having time to spare was much better than rushing around like a lunatic.

A troubling thought struck her as she opened the fridge to get the cream for the soup and saw the bottle of wine. Should she offer Lydia some? Gerry had said she wasn’t drinking now. Would
a glass of wine set her off? Would it be too obvious if she didn’t offer her a drink? Maybe she should ring her father at work and ask him. The chiming of the intercom sent her heart lurching
up to her throat and down again. Devlin’s palms actually felt sweaty as she walked over to the intercom and saw the screen image of her mother standing waiting to be let in.

Her hand was shaking as she rang Devlin’s doorbell. She had stood for several minutes trying to gather the courage to press the button. Lydia Delaney couldn’t help
the apprehension she felt. When she woke up that morning and thought of the ordeal ahead of her she was half-tempted to ring Devlin and plead a migraine. How was she going to face her daughter?
After letting her down all along the line and failing dismally as a mother?

When Devlin’s baby and her own sister Kate had been killed in that horrific accident in Wexford, Lydia had really gone to pieces. Devastating guilt, grief, and the knowledge that she would
now never see the grandchild that she had refused to acknowledge had brought her to the brink of a breakdown. When Devlin had told her from her hospital bed that she never wanted to see her again
she had gone on the worst bender of her life and to this day could not remember those three days. Gerry, unable to cope any longer, had told her that if she didn’t do something about her
drinking and get some treatment he was going to leave her. That had shocked her so much she had sought psychiatric help and gone into St Gabriel’s.