She grinned as she remembered their last outing. She had taken Fiona, aged six, and Caitriona, almost three, into town, brought them into one of the pound shops on Henry Street and told them they could pick five toys each. Fiona loved the pound shops and it had taken her an hour to make up her mind about what she wanted. Each toy was picked up, examined minutely, put down, then picked up again. Caitriona had no such problems. She knew exactly what she wanted: dolls, dolls, and more dolls. Watching the excited happy little faces of the girls holding their bagged purchases gave Liz the warmest glow, and without further ado they trooped across to Marks and Spencers where she proceeded to buy two beautiful dresses for the pair. They then hit McDonald’s for the highlight of their special day and they had tucked into burgers, chips and milkshakes with great gusto.
‘I’m weelly alighted,’ Fiona informed her aunt, wrapping two little arms around Liz’s neck and almost choking her with a hug. Liz tried to hide her smile; Fiona couldn’t yet pronounce her Rs and sometimes got her words a little wrong. How could she not melt when her beloved niece would say things like ‘Liz, if I wake up in the miggle of the night and I’m stiff scawed, can I get into your bed?’ This was when she had her two nieces staying on a ‘holiday’ night with her. Caitriona had woken at six-thirty, lifted Liz’s eyelid and demanded to know if Liz was awake. When Liz had groggily urged her to go back asleep her niece had informed her matter-of-factly, ‘But my sleep’s all gone!’ There was nobody else on the planet who would induce Liz to get up at that unearthly hour, but she was putty in the hands of Fiona and Caitriona.
She’d miss them so much. That was the one big drawback of the step she was taking. But summer holidays were long and Eve and the children were going to stay in the villa, with Don coming out for a shorter period. They would have a marvellous time. All these years of doting over her nieces had kindled in her the desire to have a child of her own. From the time she first felt her niece kicking lustily against her mother’s swollen belly and held the hours-old baby gently and gazed in awe at the perfectly formed little face with the rosebud mouth and startlingly blue eyes, Liz had got terribly broody. Now, at thirty-four, this feeling was stronger than ever.
She gazed out at the view from her balcony, smiling to herself. She supposed she would miss the apartment; it had suited her needs so well, this luxurious penthouse with its superb light which fulfilled her requirements as an artist. Still, that was the joy of being an artist. Have brush, will travel. Liz could work at her job anywhere she chose. And for the future she had chosen to work and live in a villa in Majorca.
‘You won’t be going anywhere if you don’t sell this apartment,’ she told herself briskly. Leaning an elbow on her attractive sand-coloured balcony wall she tried to see what a first-time viewer would see. Because Apartment 3B was perched high on The Washerwoman’s Hill in Glasnevin, the view was impressive. Liz could see the clear outline of the Dublin mountains straight ahead of her. It was one of those gorgeous April days when the sky was a Mediterranean blue and the outline of the mountains was etched so clearly that you almost felt you could reach out and touch them. She could see the distinct shadings of fields and bog which never failed to delight her. That was one of the joys of living in Dublin: the countryside was only a bus-journey away. The roof-tops of the city, dwarfed by the mountains, shimmered in the early morning sun. To the left and a little behind stood the Bon Secours Hospital, its grounds perfectly manicured, sheep grazing contentedly near the wall that divided it from River Gardens, a luxury apartment complex. To her right was the pyramidal, grey-blocked building that housed the Meteorological Service headquarters.
Her eyes wandered back to her own home. Lush landscaped grounds four floors below her were a blaze of cherry blossom, nodding golden daffodils and tulips, and vivid purple heathers. An ornamental stream flowed rhythmically over decorative boulders giving a soothing ambience. It was a plush, elegant complex of just a score of apartments, in four blocks: in each block a penthouse, two two-bedroomed apartments and two one-bedroomed apartments on the ground floor. The complex boasted an indoor swimming pool, tennis courts and a pool room. Liz often used the facilities and they were a great selling point. Liz had been lucky with her apartment – of that there was no doubt. She had bought during a bad slump in property and got the place for a snip. Now prices had risen dramatically and she was in line to make a fairly hefty profit. It was this that had finally decided her to move to Majorca. Property there was very cheap and she was getting a three-bedroomed villa with a small swimming pool for a price that would leave her with a nice tidy amount of savings from the sale of Apartment 3B.
Liz went back in, caught sight of her reflection in a mirror and smiled ruefully, running a hand through the soft raven curls that framed her small heart-shaped face, a face dominated by bright blue eyes which were fringed by long black lashes. Not beautiful in the conventional sense, Liz had an animated face that made men stop and look twice, her eyes mirroring every emotion she was feeling. The faint lines around them etched from her thirty-four years of living added to the character in her face. Small and petite, she aroused men’s protective instincts, but Liz had no need of protection. Time and trauma had proved that she was well able to look after herself.
‘Get a move on, girl,’ she ordered, knowing full well she had a colossal amount of work to get through. The previous night she had called a meeting of the other residents in her block to resign formally as secretary of the residents’ committee, something she was only delighted to do. The hassle she had had this past year, chasing up maintenance fees from Al and Detta, listening to Maud and Muriel complain about Derek’s parties. Only Dominic had been a model resident. Well good luck to them in Mountain View, she was leaving them to it. Liz was off to Majorca and a new life despite Hugh’s hurt protests. Still, he was getting used to the idea and the bond between them would never be broken, now that they were going to be parents.
Liz squared her shoulders, then made her bed, had a quick shower and ate some yogurt and muesli standing at the kitchen counter. She rang the estate agents to confirm the viewing time and sat down to type out the minutes of the previous night’s management committee meeting. In little over a month, with any luck, she’d be toasting herself in the sun.
The Residents
Detta and Al Shaw sat at their breakfast-counter eating toast and margarine. Both of them drank black tea because it saved on the milk. They were worried. Liz Lacey was selling the penthouse above them and God knows who might buy. Probably some rich old bitch who had loads of money and who wouldn’t mind if the maintenance fees went up. Last year had been horrific; the fees had gone up ten per cent. They’d had to get a new Chubb lock on the front door because that silly old bat Muriel on the next landing lost her keys and her name and address were on the key-ring. It was only right and proper, as Al told the meeting last night, that if it happened in future, whoever lost the keys would have to pay for the lock. Then Maud, the other old biddy, had decided they needed fire extinguishers and blankets on every landing, not just in the foyer. That had cost an arm and a leg. And now there was talk of getting the outside painted. At least Al had taken over as secretary of the management committee and he might be able to stall things for a while until they got a bit of money together.
‘You’re mad to be buying an apartment,’ their parents had told them, but Al and Detta, yuppies to the death, would hear no arguments. Weren’t they the envy of their friends and colleagues? Wasn’t an apartment in Mountain View better than a semi-detached out in God knows where! After all, Al held down a prestigious job as information scientist in Hanley and Mason’s, a huge pharmaceutical company. Detta was a lowly library assistant under his command. And how she loved being commanded by Al. She loved him, loved his power position, and hoped fervently that by marrying him she might advance her own career. To be an information scientist was her dream ever since she had started work in Hanley and Mason’s. Just think how impressed they’d be up in Kincasslagh, her home town.
It would be almost as good as being related to Daniel O’Donnell! It would be a great help with the mortgage too; an increase in salary was badly needed.
A howl from the children’s bedroom shook Al and Detta out of their moody introspection.
‘Lee, what are you doing to Candine? Leave your sister alone!’ snapped Al. He was trying to decide which suit to wear, the light beige, or pale grey. The school of library studies from UCD was coming on a visit and he wanted to make an impact. After all, these were information scientists of the future. Some of them might even end up in Hanley and Mason’s.
‘Ouch, let go of my hair!’
‘I’m telling Mammy on you! Maaaamayyy.’
‘TRALEE!!!’ yelled Al. There was silence from the adjoining room. When her father used her full name, Lee knew he meant business.
‘We’ll just have to give the children more quality time, darling,’ sighed Detta.
‘A clip on the arse would be more like it,’ muttered her husband.
‘Oh Al,’ his wife murmured reproachfully as the video intercom tinkled to announce the arrival of Tina, the nanny.
‘Come on, that shower from UCD are coming today. I want to be there early. Let’s get dressed and out of here a.s.a.p.’
Detta smiled adoringly. She loved it when her husband ordered her around. They’d manage if the maintenance fees went up, Al would provide. She just hoped that the new owner of Apartment 3B wouldn’t want to make huge changes in the place and wouldn’t mind children.
*
On the landing below, Muriel Doyle and Maud O’Connor, her sister, were arguing vigorously about who was to use the bathroom first.
‘Muriel, I was up first. Therefore I get to use the bathroom first. Kindly get out of there immediately,’ Maud commanded, inwardly raging that Muriel had managed to sneak in in front of her yet again.
Muriel, working on the assumption that possession was nine-tenths of the law, refused to be ousted. ‘I put on the immersion,’ she retorted triumphantly from behind the locked door. That would teach Maud manners, Muriel decided, as she went about her early-morning toilette. She was really annoyed with her sister.
Last night they had attended the meeting in Liz Lacey’s penthouse and Maud had got quite tipsy. As they left, that . . . that lothario Derek Sinclair on the next floor had been smirking in a superior manner at them. It was most vexatious to the spirit. And him only a ‘rented’. Everybody else at least owned their apartments. God knows what kind of character would buy 3B. Liz might have been an artist, and everybody knows artists are supposed to be a bit wild and eccentric, but they had been pleasantly surprised. Liz Lacey had turned out to be a real lady. If someone like that upstart Sinclair bought the apartment, she and Muriel might just as well sell up and go elsewhere.
It had been a mistake, a big mistake, selling her little cottage with its lovely flower-filled garden, to buy this place with Maud. ‘You’ll be great company for each other, Mum. It will be much better than living on your own,’ her son had enthused. You mean you won’t have to worry about me, she thought dryly. It had been the perfect solution for everyone – except her.
Maud was childless. She had lost her husband and couldn’t wait to sell their old damp house in Drumcondra. She wanted to buy an apartment in Mountain View, but couldn’t afford it. Nieces and nephews and Jim, Muriel’s son, had waged a . . . campaign . . . was the only word to describe it, to get Muriel to sell up and buy with her sister. They had succeeded and Muriel was now more unhappy than she had ever been in all her seventy-three years. Each day was a series of battles. Some she won, some she lost. This morning she had won so far. Now she wanted to make sure that she got the seat by the window; Liz had said that all the potential buyers of Apartment 3B were coming to view today and she wanted to make sure she got a good look at them. Drawing a deep breath, Muriel unlocked the door and marched out of the bathroom. ‘Age before beauty, dear,’ she said sweetly to her infuriated sister who stood, arms folded, at the other side of the door.
‘The dirt before the brush, dear,’ hissed Maud as she slammed the door and locked it behind her. It was going to be one of those days!
*
A jet of steaming water cascaded down Derek Sinclair’s back. He stood in his shower soaping the lovely body entwined with his. Nuzzling the girl’s ear lobe he smiled. This was absolutely his favourite way to start the day. Pity those two old broads upstairs couldn’t see what he was up to; that might stop them complaining about his parties. He grinned. Maybe frustration was their problem. Well just right now, it wasn’t his. ‘Baby, you are beautiful,’ he murmured in his best Richard Gere imitation as he drew her closer to him and they began to make love for the second time that morning.
Later, when she had gone, having refused breakfast – dieting she said – he sat down and had his own. In the bright light of morning he conceded to himself that she might have been a little over weight, well maybe half a stone! Derek had no such problems and he tucked into a hearty fry. Wait until he told the guys at work about this little cracker. He had really hit the jackpot last night at Adam’s party. He nearly hadn’t gone, with that blooming meeting that Liz had called. Pity she was leaving really. He had always fancied her but she treated him like a kid brother. Sometimes he got the impression that she didn’t take him seriously at all. And him an ace money broker, a hot-shot whizkid. Maybe she felt twenty-six was a bit young; she was, after all, a bit past thirty. It didn’t bother him – he had always liked older, mature women, as long as they were sexy. And Liz Lacey was sexy. So was that Lainey dish old Kent across the hall was canoodling with; she was sexy too, sexy as hell.
You’ve a good appreciation of women, Derek old son, he told himself as he put his dishes in the dishwasher, ran a comb through his Peter Mark permed hair, and picked up his briefcase. Whistling, he let himself out of the apartment. He checked his mailbox in the foyer: two letters, one a bill, the other from his mother in Swinford. A fleeting hint of guilt assailed him. Mam would really be horrified if she had seen him this morning. She still thought he went to Mass, for God’s sake!
He shoved the letter in his pocket. He’d read it later. He was a man of the world now, on his way to being the next Donald Trump. He had devoured The Art of the Deal from cover to cover. He knew where old Trumpy had gone wrong of course. Over-extended himself with the casino in Atlantic City. Derek would never have made the same mistake. It was badly advised. Now if he had been advising Donald Trump . . . Whistling to himself, Derek Sinclair began to imagine a scenario where he was adviser to one of the world’s best-known business tycoons. He was completely unaware that Maud and Muriel had him under a scrutiny that the KGB would have done well to match.
Michael Smurfit would want to make sure he didn’t make the same mistake, Derek decided. Maybe he’d give old Micko a ring. This scenario lasted until he got to his car, when he discovered to his dismay that he had a flat tyre. Using every curse in his repertoire he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. Old Horton would eat the head off him for being late again this week. Blasted car! Pity he couldn’t afford a new one. But the rent he was paying for this pad had him almost wiped out. Twenty minutes later, begrimed and oily because he’d had really to struggle with the bolts, the pretender to Donald Trump’s throne drove out of Mountain View. As he did so, he noticed the For Sale sign. He wondered who would buy 3B. A thought struck him as he headed towards Phibsboro. Maybe someone like the doll in the coffee ad might move in. Aha!! The bottleneck at Cross Guns Bridge ceased to worry Derek as he began to imagine the scenario where he welcomed the beautiful new tenant to Apartment 3B.
The Viewers
HUGH
Hugh Cassidy snorted in disgust as he read the item in the Irish Times about a well-known couple who had been busted for possession of cocaine. He knew them vaguely. If Liz saw it, she’d be saying, ‘You’ll be next.’ She was always going on at him about his little . . . habit. It was one of the reasons they were splitting up. The other was that he wanted
her to come to the States with him, to be with him and share the most important event in his career, an event that was just about to take place. An American TV network was at this moment drawing up a contract for him to sign and Liz was refusing to go Stateside with him. Women! He’d never understand them.
Hundreds of women would give anything to be in her shoes. He had letters and panties and the like from them to prove it. Only the day before he got the most pornographic letter he had ever read, in which the writer, female, had told him in language that almost brought a blush to his cheeks, what she would like to do with him. She had included a black wisp of satin panty that stank to high heaven of cheap perfume. The letter was postmarked Donegal. Liz had roared laughing. Hugh smiled to himself. Liz was a girl in a million – he’d known that the minute he’d met her.
His celebrity status hadn’t fazed her one bit. In fact he’d had to put up quite an argument even to get her to go on a date with him. And eventually he had succeeded. But he’d had to fight hard before they had finally begun a loving and caring relationship. Now, no matter what happened in the future, there would always be a bond between them.
If only he could persuade her to give up this half-baked notion to go painting in Majorca and settle there. He was meeting her later, after he had interviewed a politician accused of taking bribes, and before he presented prizes in a community games event and wrote his column for Review, the upmarket arts magazine. He was taking his mother to the viewing of Liz’s apartment organized by the estate agent. She had expressed a wish to sell the old family home and move in to something smaller and more compact and when Hugh had established that Liz was deadly serious about selling up and moving on he suggested to his mother that she might consider buying Liz’s apartment. She had reacted enthusiastically. Of course it was too late to do a private deal with Liz; the estate agent had been engaged before he’d had his brainwave. But he really didn’t mind. Business was better done properly and professionally. It was just a pity that the estate agent would take a good whack out of whatever price the apartment fetched.
Apartment 3B Page 2
