Apartment 3B

by Patricia Scanlan

  Cecily supposed she could have breast-fed Andrew, but the thoughts of it made her queasy. And anyway, she hadn’t wanted to have boobs as big as Dolly Parton’s! It was bad enough having stretch marks despite the gallons of baby oil she had rubbed on her stomach during her pregnancy.

  Mind, it was lovely having people stop to admire Andrew and his little outfits every time she wheeled him down to the village. And if she did say so herself, he was an extremely pretty baby, compared to the scrawny offspring that Helena had produced. You’d think with Steve being so good-looking that the baby would have inherited some of his features, but no, the unfortunate child had her mother’s pasty complexion and wispy mousy hair that was going to give her dreadful problems when she got older. No! Andrew was definitely a handsome child but then he took after the Clarke side of the family, no matter how much Simon tried to say he looked like him.

  Mrs Conroy was delighted with her grandson. Cecily supposed her mother-in-law wasn’t a bad old stick really. But all she ever did was bake cakes and bread and go out and play cards two nights a week, and go to bingo every Sunday and Friday. She was so ordinary, not a bit fashionable or anything, not like Helena McGrath’s mother who actually had a mink coat.

  Still Mrs Conroy was always willing to babysit for an hour or two if Simon and Cecily wanted to go up to Fourwinds for a drink or a meal. Simon loved bringing the baby home to show him off. Not that that Lainey one took much notice when she was there. Her own nephew, the first grandchild and she couldn’t even be bothered to come to the christening!

  Cecily had been furious. It had been just before Christmas and Cecily had had the house decorated to a theme, an idea she had got out of Cosmopolitan. Her tree was decorated with red and silver bows and balls, so tasteful and elegant. Helena had been so taken by it that she had actually snaffled her original idea and decorated the foyer of Fourwinds in the same fashion. The red and silver theme had been carried right through. Red table-cloths to emphasize the gleaming silverware. Red and silver candles that Simon had been sent especially to Dublin to buy, with instructions not to come home until he found them. The house had looked exquisite. Lainey and the rest of the set in Moncas Bay would have to be impressed by this! So that everything would go like clockwork, and because Cecily couldn’t cook much more than an egg, they had decided to get caterers in to do the buffet, something unheard of for a christening in Moncas Bay where most people just had sandwiches and cakes. Well Cecily and Simon were doing it in style and to crown it all they hired a photographer to take the pictures. And then that horrible girl hadn’t bothered to come after all Cecily’s careful planning. She was ripping.

  It was planning all of this and the desire to impress her sophisticated sister-in-law that had helped to banish the horrific trauma of childbirth from Cecily’s mind. ‘Never again,’ she wept to Simon. ‘You’ll just have to go and have the snip.’ Simon hadn’t been too happy at the idea, but to show him that she was serious, she had cancelled marital rights until the job was done. She had been advised against taking the pill by her doctor, she couldn’t bear fiddling with herself with that awful diaphragm, those condom things were revolting and Andrew was the result of the Billings method, another distasteful carry-on, taking your temperature and studying your mucus. It was enough to turn anyone celibate! What all the fuss about sex was, Cecily could not comprehend. She preferred a box of melt-in-the-mouth hand-made chocolates any day! But Simon seemed to enjoy it and to be fair he was a most considerate husband. Nevertheless, it was up to him. She had told him, ‘Get the job done or no nookey!’ He had lasted a year before taking the big step!

  If he dared look for some tonight he would get an earful from her, Cecily decided grumpily, as she accidentally stood on a chocolate rice crispie, feeling it crunch under her patent high heels, right into her good Navan carpet. Where was Simon anyway? He’d promised he’d be home to blow out the candles. She’d kill him when she got her hands on him.

  *

  ‘Aaahhh!’ groaned Simon, as he came to a very satisfying climax inside the luscious body of Nurse Noonan, his receptionist and assistant.

  ‘Simon, you’re wonderful,’ smiled Máire, massaging his shoulder muscles just the way he liked. The pink lamp cast a warm homely glow in Máire’s comfortable little bedroom. She had done the place up very well, made it very cosy altogether. He liked this bedroom. It was so easy on the eye, uncluttered and lived in, not like his own boudoir with its frills and flounces and those hideous Austrian blinds that Cecily assured him were the height of chic. The lamplight reflected on the polished glow of the old chest-of-drawers. Simon liked old furniture. Of course his marital bedroom was fully fitted in some cream melamine. Cecily wanted everything modern and matching. But as he lay contentedly beside Máire, Simon decided why he was so comfortable and relaxed in this room. It was because it reminded him of his old bedroom at home in his parents’ house.

  When he gave Nurse Noonan the job as his receptionist/assistant after his former receptionist left to go and live on a kibbutz, he had never thought that he would end up having an affair with her. He had leased her the rooms over his surgery as a flat and she had made such a nice job of it that he had taken to dropping in now and again for a cup of tea after a gruelling day’s work. He needed to relax for a little while before getting home to Cecily and the baby. Cecily was not the world’s most natural mother, and indeed it had been a heart-stopping shock for her to discover she was pregnant so soon into their marriage. She had been enjoying her freedom so much after the hard work she had put into her career in Dublin. Simon had expected Cecily to be bored after dropping her career aspirations to marry him. But she had settled into life as a housewife surprisingly well and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. It had given him immense satisfaction. Then she got pregnant and the cat was among the pigeons.

  Andrew was the joy of his life. He was a beautiful baby and it gave Simon a secret little sense of satisfaction that he and Cecily had produced a son and heir while the McGraths, although they had a lovely daughter, still had to try for a son. Just as well they had had Andrew because Cecily was adamant about never getting pregnant again. And to prove it, she hadn’t let him near her until he’d gone and had a vasectomy. Mind, after the nine months he had endured when she was pregnant with Andrew, he was almost relieved to go through with it. And anyway he was as horny as bedamned after abstaining for a year. It had been bloody sore for a few days after the operation and he felt, much to his dismay, that he was no longer the man he had been.

  When Nurse Noonan had indicated that she was more than professionally interested it had come as a welcome surprise to him. Cecily was much too harassed these days to enjoy sex and now that he was shooting blanks, he might as well get some benefit out of the operation. In fact it was the ideal solution. Cecily was happy that he wasn’t annoying her. He was happy because he was genuinely fond of Máire and besides she had a ripe bosomy body that was made for loving, unlike his wife’s model-thin angles. And Nurse Noonan was happy because she had cast the albatross of her virginity from around her neck, thrilled that at last someone desired her despite the fact that she was two stones overweight and had thighs like tree trunks.

  ‘I’d better go home,’ Simon murmured regretfully, almost smothered between two soft bosoms. ‘It’s my son’s birthday and I’ve to help blow out the candles.’

  ‘Soon,’ whispered Nurse Noonan as she tightened her arms around him.

  Wednesday 8 June 1988

  The nail-varnish bottle slipped off the edge of the lounger and Cecily cursed as purple varnish splashed on her white towelling robe and on to the red tiles of the balcony. Hastily she got up from the lounger and, avoiding the purple puddle, went in to the villa to get some tissues and nail-varnish remover.

  Just as well Simon was playing golf; he’d probably have hysterics. Hysterical Hilda she often called him when he got excited over nothing. It took her a while to erase all traces of the purple varnish and, slipping out of the towelling robe
, Cecily placed it in the linen basket that Pepita the maid would be collecting a little later. She stepped into a turquoise swimsuit, poured herself a generous Malibu, added some ice, and returned to her lounger beside the aquamarine pool.

  She lay, relaxed, as the sun poured heat all over her tanned body, planning what she’d wear to the party in Puerto Banus later this evening. Her Pat Crowley cocktail dress, definitely. That could compete with anything the chic monied Marbella set wore. It had cost an arm and a leg of course, but she had told Simon she wasn’t going to Marbella unless she was dressed for it. Besides he was getting the villa for nothing, so the holiday wasn’t costing him a fortune.

  It had been most generous of Manus Burke to lend them his villa for a week, but then Simon had done some very expensive crown work for the cattle exporter and hardly charged him at all. You rub my back and I’ll rub yours was Simon’s motto in some cases. It paid better. You’d never believe Manus Burke was a millionaire to look at him. He was so laid back. But he had a brain as sharp as a razor and he used it. No matter how hard Simon worked, he’d never be able to afford a luxury villa in Marbella, Cecily thought regretfully, as she rubbed on some factor six protection. This was so much more impressive than her usual package holidays to the sun. Still Simon was doing well enough. He had patients coming from as far as Wexford and her lifestyle was far removed from the one she had had before her marriage. Now she was someone, a leading light in Moncas Bay society, something she had longed to be from the time she had come to live in the village.

  Her son Andrew was a model child and she had no problems with him. It was hard to believe he was nearly ten. They hadn’t brought him on holiday – not that he had been disappointed. He had gone to stay with his grandmother. Andrew loved to stay with Mrs Conroy although Cecily could not fathom why. He had to make his own bed, wash up and help his grandfather in the garden. At home Mrs Maguire, her housekeeper, did all these chores, and they had a gardener call once a week to take care of the gardens. Children were funny. Cecily would never understand them. She took a sip from her Malibu. She’d been drinking it all afternoon and was beginning to get pleasantly woozy. This would impress the hell out of Lainey, she was sure. Her sister-in-law was due home for a visit from the Gulf and Cecily would have a tan and tales about her holiday that would rival anything she’d have to report about her travels. It was such a pain, listening to her go on about staying in the New York Hilton and the like. And she only a glorified flying waitress for all her stuck-up airs and graces. And some day Cecily was going to say this to her, she vowed. Mind, Lainey wouldn’t take that lying down. She might retaliate. Somehow, Cecily felt she would never get the better of her sister-in-law in an argument. Still, Cecily would keep the insult in reserve, for when Lainey got too big for her boots. Taking another sip of Malibu she sighed with pleasure. This really was the life. A pity it was only for a week. She hoped Andrew wasn’t missing them too much. Cecily’s eyes closed behind her Ray Bans, as, nicely pickled, she began to doze.

  *

  Andrew was, in fact, having the time of his life. His Gran Conroy didn’t mind a bit if his clothes got dirty. She cooked the most scrumptious dinners. And she always had tarts and cakes in the pantry. Andrew loved his Gran’s pantry, with its jars of pickles and chutneys and jams and the big bread bin that always had home-made brown bread. And the tin full of scones and the plate of tart and, his absolute favourite, a big chocolate sponge. The pantry was Andrew’s idea of heaven on earth. All they had at home was a huge boring deep freeze and shop-bought biscuits and cakes.

  At his Gran’s he slept in his Aunt Lainey’s bedroom, which had a little round window through which he could see the sea. His Grandad had given him a pair of binoculars and he loved watching the ships sailing past on the horizon. His Grandad’s shed was almost as good as the pantry. It had tools and workbenches and Grandad was helping him make a treehouse for the big oak tree at the end of his grandparents’ big garden. As he hammered a nail into a sheet of wood that was going to be the floor, Andrew smiled at his grandfather, delighted with himself. It was an awful pity his parents were only gone away for a week. He only had a few days left to enjoy himself so he’d better make the most of it. His grandmother appeared at the door with a mug of tea for his Grandad and a big glass of homemade lemonade for himself, and two big chunks of chocolate sponge. ‘I thought the workmen might be hungry,’ she smiled.

  ‘And you’re dead right. We’re starving, aren’t we, Andrew?’ her husband replied, winking.

  ‘We’re starving, Gran,’ Andrew agreed, winking back as he took a mouthful of the creamy chocolate sponge and heaved a sigh of pleasure.

  *

  Simon watched in satisfaction as his golf ball arched and flew exactly where he wanted it to, right on to the eighteenth green. Just as well he’d got in a lot of golfing practice back home. He didn’t want to make a show of himself here on this magnificent golf course, with all the jet-setters. He had tried not to gawk when he actually saw Sean and Micheline Connery, strolling into the club house after a round. Even though balding, Connery was a fine-looking man and could still impress women young enough to be his daughter. Simon had got a bit sunburnt on his bald spot yesterday, he could feel it under his golfing hat. He’d put some cream on it when he got back to the villa. Although he was thoroughly enjoying his holiday, he was looking forward to going home too. It would be most enjoyable standing at the bar in Fourwinds casually mentioning that he had had a round of golf with Sean and Micheline. And telling about the parties on the yachts in Puerto Banus. All very casually of course. Most of all, though, he was looking forward to his reunion with Máire Noonan. He must buy her something really nice. Maybe he’d buy it after the game, seeing as he had a few hours to himself. Cecily had told him she intended to get some serious sunbathing done. And that suited Simon just fine. ‘Good shot!’ his partner said. ‘Not bad,’ agreed Simon with satisfaction.

  THE NINETIES

  LIZ

  Sunday 4 November 1990

  As she snuggled down into the comfy sofa, papers and magazines, a cup of tea and a chunk of pecan pie beside her, Liz reflected that she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in years. In front of her, a blazing fire roared up the chimney, the flames flickering and dancing, casting shadows in the lamp-lit room. Outside the wind howled and rain lashed in fury against the window panes. Liz didn’t care; the storm added to her enjoyment and sense of comfort. In the background Dean Martin crooned softly, a selection of Fifties love-songs that soothed her spirit. This was, she decided, the perfect way to spend a Sunday evening. And she was going to have more of such evenings!

  She couldn’t remember the last Sunday evening she had spent by herself, just flopping. Mostly she accompanied Hugh to some do, or to the cinema, or a party. She was getting extremely tired of constant socializing. To Hugh it was a way of life and he thrived on it but café society was beginning to bore her. All the same old faces at first nights and premières and launches and lunches. The see-and-be-seen set always trying to out-do one another. She knew of women who had cracked up because of the pressure of the lifestyle of a socialite. Liz grinned to herself – she’d never be that silly. Only last week she had been the cause of a heated argument at a charity do to which she and Hugh had been invited.

  Liz had been wearing an emerald satin strapless sheath dress that showed off her svelte figure to perfection. She loved the dress. ‘My dear, what a lovely gown! Is it a Bruce Oldfield?’ Brona O’Malley, the hostess, enquired coolly as she inspected Liz from head to toe. Brona didn’t like Liz, and the feeling was mutual. Liz thought the older woman shallow and superficial and she was well aware that Brona fancied Hugh like crazy and flirted quite blatantly with him in front of Liz, despite Hugh’s obvious lack of interest.

  ‘No, it’s not a Bruce Oldfield, it’s an Eve Clancy creation.’

  ‘Eve Clancy? I don’t recall ever hearing of her. Is she a new designer?’ Brona queried, perplexed, as she knew of and bought from most designers of
note. Tonight she was wearing a Kanga original. It did absolutely nothing for her, the heavily-patterned material swamping Brona’s scrawny figure.

  Stop being bitchy, Liz told herself – just because you don’t like the Kanga label. Liz preferred a simpler style. ‘Eve is my sister-in-law,’ she said lightly.

  ‘Oh! Home-made!’ Her hostess exclaimed patronizingly. ‘How quaint! Margo,’ she addressed a well-known fashion columnist who had just joined them. ‘Liz actually wears home-made dresses. You’d never guess, would you?’ she added cattily.

  ‘Really!’ drawled Margo in her affected South Dublin whine. ‘How . . . unusual.’ Both women smiled, dripping condescension. Liz had had enough. She remembered Brona recently boasting that she had spent three thousand pounds on a Karl Lagerfeld creation. ‘I don’t go in for haute couture much. I paid one hundred and fifty pounds for the material for this. I wouldn’t dream of paying thousands of pounds for a dress. No matter how much money I had. I think it’s obscene, actually.’

  There was uproar.

  ‘But Liz, think of the work that goes into a designer original. All those seamstresses. The hand-stitching, the unique design.’ Margo was incensed.

  ‘This gown has been hand-stitched. And it’s an original,’ Liz countered.

  ‘Oh don’t be silly, dear, that’s different,’ Brona snapped.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t see why,’ Liz said calmly. ‘You thought it was a Bruce Oldfield yourself. It’s the label you’re paying for and if you ask me it’s all a great big racket and if people are daft enough to want to play that game just to impress other people, that’s their choice. It’s just not mine. Frankly, I’m not into that kind of snobbery.’