‘Obviously she got the royalties she was looking for then,’ Marcy said glumly, feeling very sorry for Maggie, who was going to be so disappointed.
‘And how!’ grimaced Sandra. ‘Not only did she get her royalties; she insisted on two hundred and fifty thousand just to sign the contract.’
Jeremy winced. ‘Keep that to yourself, for God’s sake! We don’t want any of our lot getting ideas. I hate hearing things like that.’
‘When do you want to go with it now?’ Marcy asked.
‘I think,’ said Sandra slowly, ‘that we should postpone it until November of next year. We’ll get the Christmas market, and launch the paperback the following summer and her second hardback in October of the same year. As far as I can see from what’s coming out next year, November is our best time. Because we’ll have the two hardbacks out within the space of a year, plus the City Woman paperback, we can do a media blitz and the momentum will keep going for the second one. In one way Arthur Martin has done us a favour. Believe me, in a couple of years’ time it will be Arthur Martin who’ll be saying they can’t put Janet Stevens up against Maggie Ryan,’ finished Sandra firmly.
‘Who’s going to tell Maggie?’ sighed Marcy. ‘She really slogged her guts out to get City Woman ready for us when I asked her to.’
‘I’ll tell her,’ Sandra said. ‘It’s my department’s decision and I’ll explain all the facts to her.’
‘Treat her to lunch. Buy her flowers. Make a fuss of her,’ Jeremy instructed. ‘I’m as disappointed as she’s going to be.’
‘I will,’ Sandra assured him. She was known for her great ability to smooth ruffled feathers.
‘Hell! Buy her a bottle of champagne too – a decent bottle,’ Jeremy growled, and brightened up a little as Marcy squeezed his hand. Sandra, who was phoning Locks restaurant to make a lunch reservation for the following Friday, did not notice.
‘So you see, Maggie, it’s not in your best interest to publish City Woman when we wanted to because of this new development,’ Sandra said gently.
Maggie felt the food in her mouth turn to sawdust, her heart sank like a stone and she tried hard not to cry. The disappointment she felt was almost physical. She knew that Sandra was right, that she wasn’t being mucked about, but it still didn’t make the news she had just been given any easier to swallow.
‘I know you’re terribly disappointed, Maggie,’ Sandra said sympathetically, ‘and, believe me, this is as big an upset for us as it is for you. There’s nothing I can say that’s going to make it any easier. But your day will come. Don’t worry.’
‘Can I stick it that long?’ Maggie said dispiritedly. ‘Do you really think I should bother carrying on with the second one?’
‘Yes! Yes,’ Sandra urged. ‘This is just a setback, Maggie, believe me.’
‘You can say that again!’ Maggie gave a sigh that came from her toes.
‘You’re not writing? Why not?’ Marcy’s crisp tones came down the line. It was a week after the dispiriting lunch with Sandra. Maggie’s holiday in Wicklow was over and she was back in Dublin.
‘Ah, I’m not in the humour,’ Maggie declared.
‘Really!’ Marcy’s tone was disapproving. ‘Let me tell you, Maggie, this is what separates the men from the boys, the women from the girls. Anybody can write a first novel. It’s getting on with the second one, and then the third and fourth that proves that you are a real writer. I never had you figured for a quitter.’
There was silence as Maggie digested this. ‘I’m not a quitter,’ she responded angrily. Who the hell did Marcy Elliot think she was?
‘Prove it then,’ Marcy said coolly. ‘Have your next chapter on my desk by Friday week.’
‘I’m going into hospital to get my tubes tied on Friday week,’ Maggie snapped.
‘Fine. Have it done by Thursday week then.’
‘Right,’ Maggie growled and hung up. What a bitch that Marcy one was. As hard as nails. The cheek of her calling her a quitter. Well, she wasn’t going to write that chapter before she went into hospital and that was that.
She wished that ordeal was over too. The letter with details of her appointment had been waiting for her when she arrived home from Wicklow and Terry was prepared to take a week off work, so anxious was he for her to have the operation done. She might as well get it over with, she decided. It would be one less worry in her life.
She went into the kitchen and stood glowering at her typewriter. Ten minutes later she was tapping away on it. ‘I’ll show you if I’m a quitter or not, Ms Marcy Elliot,’ she muttered angrily.
On the following Thursday week, she arrived in Marcy’s office and plonked forty pages of manuscript on her desk. Marcy grinned. ‘I put the iron in your soul, didn’t I – calling you a quitter!’
‘Bitch,’ retorted Maggie, but in spite of herself she laughed. Now that her equilibrium was somewhat restored she was able to see that Marcy had motivated her wonderfully. She was a hell of an editor!
‘Relax now when you’re in hospital and make the most of the few days’ peace and quiet. You’ll be raring to go when you get home,’ Marcy said teasingly. But knowing her, Maggie felt she was half-serious.
‘It’s all over now; you’re fine,’ Maggie heard the nurse in the recovery room tell her. She sank back into slumber with a vague sense of relief. At least she’d never have to worry about getting pregnant again. Maybe she could write about it some time in a novel; it was something that lots of women had to make a choice about. She’d discuss it with Marcy, she decided, as she fell fast asleep.
PART TWO
Caroline’s Story – II
Twenty-Nine
‘Have you got your passport? Have you got a copy of your visa? Have you got your tickets?’ Devlin ran through Caroline’s checklist.
Caroline took her KLM ticket folder out of her bag. ‘They’re all here and I’ve got my traveller’s cheques and my sterling.’
‘Right then, come on,’ said Devlin.
‘Are you ready, Maggie?’ Caroline called.
Maggie appeared at the kitchen door, holding her head. ‘Oh God, I’ll never drink red wine again,’ she moaned.
‘I think I’ve heard that refrain a few times over the years since I’ve known you,’ said Caroline.
‘Will I ever learn? At least you don’t suffer from hangovers these days!’
‘And I had some humdingers, believe me,’ Caroline said sombrely. ‘Life is much simpler for me without drink. I just hope I never fall off the wagon!’
‘Well, you shouldn’t have any problem in Abu Dhabi,’ Devlin remarked cheerfully. ‘Drink isn’t allowed there, sure it isn’t?’
‘Actually it is allowed. Abu Dhabi isn’t restricted like Saudi – or so I’m told. Bill said they have great parties there: it’s a very social place by all accounts.’ As she spoke, Caroline finished filling out her luggage-tags.
‘I had some of the greatest hangovers ever invented in Saudi, despite that fact that it was dry,’ said Maggie, remembering some of the home-brews she’d tasted when she had lived on a compound in Riyadh as a newly-wed. ‘But you’re right, Caroline; you can’t compare Abu Dhabi with Saudi. The rulers in the Emirate are very enlightened: they even allow people of other religions to practise. It’s a very cosmopolitan city. It may be only thirty years old but it’s really well laid out and so green and picturesque. The Corniche is fabulous, Terry and I walked along it at sunset one evening when he had to go there on business and it was breathtaking. Caroline, you’re going to have a ball.’ She beamed at her friend.
‘Do you think I’m mad to go?’ Caroline said doubtfully.
‘Don’t be daft,’ retorted Maggie. ‘This is the chance of a lifetime. Make the most of it, for heaven’s sake. And Caroline . . .’ Maggie pointed to the traveller’s cheques. ‘Treat yourself! Gold is fantastic value and so are the silks and the sportswear, and you can get designer labels for half-nothing . . . Oooh, I wish I was going with you.’
‘I wish you were t
oo,’ Caroline said. Now that the big moment had come, she was having second thoughts.
‘Nobody will be going anywhere if we don’t get a move on,’ retorted Devlin, nipping Caroline’s dolefulness in the bud.
Caroline took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, Dev, let’s get the show on the road.’ They left Devlin’s apartment, where they had all spent the night, and as they walked across the gravelled courtyard Caroline cast a glance at the penthouse in the opposite block, where she had lived since her marriage. She had no regrets about leaving it. The for-sale sign was planted firmly in the lawn; the sooner the penthouse was sold the better. For her, the sale would signify the end of her marriage and the start of her new life. Richard had wanted her to continue living there, but it had never been a home to her. It had been a place of great unhappiness, beatings, heavy drinking and her awful suicide attempt after discovering that Richard and Charles were lovers. Even living there after Richard had gone to the States with Charles, she hadn’t enjoyed it. She wanted a place of her own and when she had made the life-changing decision to work for six months in the UAE, she and Richard had decided to sell up. The estate agents she had worked for were doing the sale free of charge and were confident of a quick sale. The proceeds would then be divided between her and Richard. With that, and whatever money she saved in Abu Dhabi, Caroline intended to buy herself a small townhouse.
‘Get in, Caroline,’ Devlin said gently, knowing what was going through her friend’s mind. Caroline got into the front seat and as Devlin drove out on to the Clontarf road, she didn’t look back.
There was little traffic on the roads at six-fifteen a.m. and Caroline looked across the Liffey at the lights of Dublin port twinkling in the dark. She wouldn’t see them again for at least six months but right now the thought didn’t bother her. She was heartily sick of Dublin at this minute. Sick of answering the phone to all Richard’s phoney jet-set friends who were dying to know where he had gone without telling any of them and even more anxious to know why she had not gone with him. She had overheard gossip at City Girl that Richard had run off with DeeDee O’Neill, the actress he had been with in the Gaiety Theatre, that night so long ago, when Caroline met him for the second time.
She had gone into the Coffee Dock with Devlin one morning and seen Lucinda Marshall, the tabloid gossip columnist, who had a greatly exaggerated view of her own importance, seated with her VBF Andrea Walsh, the well-known neurotic, who had married a much older man for his money and was now spending it with gay abandon, much to his dismay – particularly as she seemed to develop a migraine every time he suggested sex and they were now sleeping in separate rooms.
‘Darling,’ Lucinda had immediately greeted Caroline in that peculiar drawly accent of hers. ‘You look stunning. How is that gorgeous husband of yours and where on earth is he? I need some legal advice.’ To her own surprise and Devlin’s delighted amusement she had retorted coolly: ‘Richard doesn’t do libel, Lucinda, but I’ll tell him you were enquiring after him when I’m on the phone to him tonight.’ Lucinda’s jaw dropped as Caroline and Devlin moved on to Devlin’s corner table.
‘That’s one of the few times I’ve ever seen Poison Pen Marshall speechless, Caroline. Congratulations! I’m really thinking of not renewing her membership. I want my clients to be able to come here in peace and not have to be worrying about her and her snide comments in that thing she calls a social column.’
‘I bet I’ll feature in it after this,’ Caroline sighed. ‘Look at the face of her; she’s furious.’ They glanced over to where Lucinda and Andrea were glowering at them.
‘Oh don’t mind them, Caro; they’re pathetic,’ Devlin urged, but the following Sunday, the heading in Lucinda’s gossip column was ‘Careworn Caroline Candidate for Marriage Break-Up?’
Caroline smiled to herself as Devlin swung left off the Malahide road on to Griffith Avenue. Maybe she ought to start a rival gossip column called Abu Dhabi Diary. That would really knock the wind out of Lucinda’s sails. The only people who knew Caroline was going away were Devlin and Maggie, her father and her two brothers, and Richard and Charles. She couldn’t face any questions and she wasn’t yet ready to announce to all and sundry that her marriage to Richard was over. That was why she had decided in such haste to take this job. She wanted to get away – needed to get away – to try and make some sense of what was happening in her life. In a sense, Charles’s illness had forced her and Richard to face up to the realities of their own lives. It had given her the kickstart she needed to get out of the cocoon that had been her life since she had come out of the drying-out clinic. Making the impetuous decision to accept Bill Mangan’s offer was so totally out of character for her that at times she still felt as though she were dreaming and that she would wake up to find everything as it was before.
‘Are you all right there, Caro?’ Maggie’s voice came from the back of the car. ‘You’re very quiet.’
‘I’m fine, Maggie,’ Caroline responded lightly. ‘It’s just a bit early for scintillating conversation.’ In fact, her insides were like jelly and her right leg was actually shaking. ‘Have you any advice for me?’ She tried to ignore the butterflies that were galloping around like a herd of elephants in her stomach.
‘Well, you’re going out at a nice time of year; the temperatures will be in the high seventies and low eighties, you lucky thing,’ Maggie said enviously. ‘Imagine, Devlin, this one will be lying on a beach and swimming in the Arabian Gulf in the middle of November when we’re shivering over here for the next four months.’
‘I’d love to be you.’ Devlin smiled across at Caroline.
‘Let’s see now, what advice have I got for you?’ Maggie spoke aloud. ‘Well, you’re going to a country that’s not too rigid: so you can pretty much wear what you like as long as it’s fairly respectable. For example, don’t wear your skimpy low-cut T-shirt and mini when going shopping in the souk. You’ll find it’s a totally different culture and as long as you remember that you are a guest in the country and that their ways and their customs are the norm, while yours are strange but tolerated by them, you should be fine. Lots of people go to these countries and try to retain their ways of living or won’t accept the rules, and they end up in trouble or very unhappy. I’ve seen it often. I found it difficult at times myself when I lived in Saudi, but they are totally off the wall there,’ Maggie failed to stifle a yawn. ‘Sorry, Caroline,’ she apologized. ‘It’s old age.’
‘Huh, it’s too much red wine,’ snorted Devlin.
‘Do you think I’ll stick it, Maggie?’ Caroline asked.
‘Of course you will, Caroline,’ Maggie said firmly. ‘Just look on it as an extended holiday. You’ll have a ball. It’s such a different way of life. It gets a bit unreal sometimes. When I first flew out to Saudi, I felt as though all my problems were left at home. You know: the worry and hassle I had with my mother that time after her operation when I had to come home from America. My mother and father were very opposed to me going to Saudi with Terry and they gave me a terrible time over it. But the further away from home I got on that plane, the more my problems seemed to recede. So you just go to Abu Dhabi and take this six months as a breather away from everyone. Away from the annulment and Richard and selling the penthouse; away from the likes of that ridiculous Marshall woman and that awful set she writes about. Just go and enjoy yourself, and believe me, my girl, when you come home in six months you’ll be a different woman.’
‘I wish . . .’ sighed Caroline.
‘I’m telling you,’ Maggie said earnestly. ‘I saw girls coming out to Saudi, nurses and secretaries and the like, who wouldn’t say boo to a goose, and after a couple of months of having to fend for themselves they were different women. Do you know something?’ She sat up straight. ‘I’m getting great ideas for a new novel here.’
‘Maggie Ryan!’ expostulated Caroline, laughing. ‘Don’t you dare put me in a novel.’
‘As if I would,’ snorted Maggie as Devlin scorched along the dual carria
geway. The lights of the airport came into view and a Boeing 737, coming in to land, roared over the top of the car.
They all grew silent as Devlin turned into the airport and before long they were parked in the multi-storey car-park. Devlin took charge of unloading the luggage. As they paused at the crossing in front of the entrance, Caroline took a deep breath. The November air was sharp and clear and frosty, and she inhaled deeply. It would be quite some time before she inhaled cold air again. The stars twinkled against the blue-black sky and a silver sliver of moon was suspended in the darkness. The next time she saw those very same stars and that curved moon, she’d be thousands of miles and several time-zones away, she reflected, as she manoeuvred the luggage trolley into the terminal building.
The Aer Lingus flight to Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, was checking in at Section 2, Devlin read from the monitor, and before Caroline knew it, the formalities were over and they were having a quick cup of coffee in the snack bar.
‘Well, it’s too late to back out now.’ Caroline tried to keep her spirits up but her smile faltered. ‘I’ll miss you two so much. I wish I was going to be here for the launch of City Woman.’
‘I wish you were, too, Caro,’ Maggie said gently. ‘It won’t be the same, but really, this is just what you need.’
‘Caroline, this time next week when you’re sunbathing and living the high life,’ said Devlin, giving Caroline’s fingers a reassuring squeeze, ‘you’ll hardly believe your luck and you’ll be feeling so sorry for us. It might get too much for me and I’ll have to come out and visit you.’
‘Oh really? Would you, Devlin?’ Caroline said eagerly, her face brightening. ‘Oh that would be really something to look forward to.’
City Woman Page 26
