The phone rang and Devlin almost jumped. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Luke. ‘It’s your mother.’ He held out the phone to her.
‘Devlin, did you hear the radio?’ Lydia sounded not far from hysterics.
‘It’s all right, Mum. Calm down! I’m calling my solicitor. Luke is here with me and we’re going to get an injunction to stop the paper from publishing the article.’
‘They don’t need to publish any article,’ Lydia fumed. ‘That advertisement was enough. Devlin, I really feel this is all my fault . . .’
‘Mum, that’s enough of that! It’s nobody’s fault. That paper is a rag and don’t you dare let it get to you. Go to work today as normal and forget about it.’
‘Will you be in today or are you going to take the day off?’ Lydia asked miserably.
Devlin was silent for a minute. To tell the truth, City Girl was the last place she wanted to be after what she had heard on the radio. It would be hard to face everybody, knowing there would be talk.
‘Maybe you shouldn’t, dear. Maybe you should go away for the weekend: get out of Dublin for a few days until this has all blown over.’
For one moment Devlin was tempted to do just what Lydia suggested, tempted to turn to Luke and say, to hell with it all – let’s go to London. But that would have been running away and Devlin had never run away from anything in her life. A sudden sense of resolve stiffened her spine. They weren’t going to have the satisfaction of seeing her fleeing or hiding, as if she had something to be ashamed of. It was they who should be ashamed – not her.
‘Of course I’m going into the office, Mum. I’ll be a bit late because I have to talk to my solicitor but I’ll see you later and we’ll have coffee in the Coffee Dock. Maybe you and Dad would like to have dinner with Luke and me tomorrow night. I’ll see if I can book somewhere nice.’ She could sense her mother’s surprise and see Luke’s face breaking into a grin as he gave her the thumbs-up sign.
‘I . . . do you think . . . are you up to it, Devlin?’
‘Of course I am. I never felt more like going out for a meal in my life.’ Now that Devlin had decided on a course of action, she was feeling much more positive.
‘I’ll phone your father and see what he has to say and I’ll see you later then,’ Lydia promised.
‘I like the way you’re handling things,’ Luke declared. ‘Why don’t we up the ante and have drinks in the Horseshoe Bar before we go to dinner? Now that would really give the glitterati something to talk about!’
‘Oh, I don’t know, Luke.’
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘You’ve the right idea about going into work and going out to dinner. Take it a step further by going for drinks in the place to be. Let people see you don’t give a damn about the Sunday Echo and its grotty little story.’
‘Do you know what you remind me of? Do you remember when Rhett Butler dragged Scarlett out of the bed and made her go to Melanie’s party for Ashley after India Wilkes had caught Scarlett kissing him?’
‘It worked, didn’t it,’ Luke retorted. ‘If you want to come down to the foyer, I’ll sweep you up into my arms and run up the stairs with you and ravish you as well.’ His eyes twinkled.
‘After that ad, I suppose I am a bit of a Scarlet Woman!’
‘Ouch,’ Luke grimaced. ‘Another pun like that and I’ll need resuscitation. Here.’ He handed her the phone. ‘Call your solicitor.’
Devlin needed him! Did you ever hear anything so pathetic? Dianne paced the office with a face like thunder. What kind of businessman cancelled important engagements because a wishy-washy, pea-brained, clinging bimbo needed him?
Why was Luke so besotted with that Delaney creature when right at his side, day in, day out, he had a woman with brains, class, and beauty, who was his intellectual equal, understood all the stresses and strains of his busy lifestyle and, most importantly, worshipped the ground he walked on. Dianne would never insist that Luke cancel business appointments because she ‘needed’ him, she thought furiously. She didn’t blame Luke. Oh Lord, no. His trouble was that he was far too kind, far too softhearted. Didn’t she have experience of that? Dianne’s cheeks burned in mortification at the memory. It could have been her greatest moment of happiness; instead, it had been the moment of her greatest humiliation.
It had happened the day she left the office early, after she had finally made up her mind to let him know how she felt. She successfully selected some gorgeous sexy underwear, went home and decided to spend the afternoon beautifying herself. She had treated herself to some bath-oils and essences from the Body Shop and she ran herself a scorching hot bath. It was a bitterly cold day and she had been frozen to the bone. Her cleaning woman, Mrs Foster, was hoovering and it pleased Dianne to lie back in the hot scented water and listen to the muted sounds of the Electrolux. Mrs Foster was her greatest luxury. Dianne had always hated hoovering and polishing and doing the ironing and when she had got the job as Luke’s PA and started earning a generous salary, moving to a posh apartment block and employing Mrs Foster had been her priorities.
‘I’m off, Miss Westwood.’ Dianne came back to reality, hearing the cleaner make her goodbyes. She had been having one of her fantasies, the one in which she was a famous pop-singer and Luke was her bodyguard fighting his attraction to her, and she had just come to the bit where he could contain his feelings no longer and was making throbbing, passionate love to her in her jacuzzi. The water had gone cold and, shivering, she jumped out of the bath and wrapped herself in a warm towel. Remembering that she had forgotten to buy coffee and knowing that she would never survive more than two hours without a cup, she stuck her head out the door and asked the obliging Mrs Foster to pop into the supermarket down the road and get her a jar.
Despite the central heating, Dianne felt slightly chilly. She was a very cold creature and hated winter with a vengeance. She slipped into a pair of passion-killer flannelette pyjamas that were worn only on the coldest nights, and wrapped herself in an old but exceedingly warm woolly dressing-gown that her mother had given her when she had first come to London. While she was waiting for Mrs Foster to return she decided to remove the blonde hairs that grew along her upper lip and just at the base of her chin. They were very very faint, but she was conscious of them and wanted everything to be smooth and silky for Luke’s kiss. She had bought a new depilatory cream that promised very long-lasting results.
The phone rang and it was Rodney, a merchant banker whom she was using as a stop-gap until Luke came to his senses. He tried to persuade her to let him come and stay the night but she wasn’t in the humour and spent ten minutes putting him off. When she had removed the cream, she had discovered to her horror that she had a bright red rash all around her upper lip and chin. She had left the cream on for far too long and the world and his mother would know that she had been using a depilatory on her lip and chin. Dianne was furious. The marks wouldn’t fade for at least two or three days so she’d have to stay out of work. Even make-up wouldn’t cover it.
A knock on the door had made her curse loudly. Why hadn’t Mrs Foster taken her damned keys? In a thoroughly bad humour, she flung open the door to find Luke standing there.
Even now, days later, Dianne felt a rush of heat to her face and her stomach lurch at the memory.
‘Lord, Dianne, you don’t look at all well. Maybe you’ve got an allergy of some sort,’ he said in concern, staring at her flushed and red-blotched face, as he handed her a bouquet of roses and a huge box of chocolates.
‘I think it was shellfish,’ she had the presence of mind to mutter, hiding her face in the flowers and making a pretence of smelling them, as great knife-stabs of humiliation penetrated her heart.
‘Can I do anything? Do you need a doctor?’ Luke asked anxiously. Dianne could have wept. This should have been the fantasy of fantasies coming true. She should have met him at the door in her silk négligée wearing the lovely new underwear underneath. She should have done her dying swan act and pretended to be faint and he’d have
had to carry her inside in those strong muscled arms that made her drool. Instead he’d found her in a woolly dressing-gown that had little balls of fluff all over it, and a big blob of spaghetti sauce on the front. The bottoms of her flannelette pyjamas were sticking out, and she had a moustache and beard of raw red skin that were too mortifying even to contemplate.
Luke handed Dianne a jar of coffee and explained that he’d met her cleaner outside and offered to bring up her message. That’s how he’d got into the building without disturbing her.
‘Go to bed, Dianne, and don’t come back for a week,’ he said kindly. ‘And if you need anything, shout.’ She watched him run lithely down the stairs and felt like throwing his flowers and chocolates and the coffee down after him. Then she went back into her apartment, slammed the door behind her, flung everything on the sofa, stubbed her toe on the leg of the coffee table and bawled her eyes out.
Standing in Luke’s office, compiling a list of calls to make to people he would not be seeing because Devlin Delaney ‘needed’ him, Dianne felt like crying all over again. He really was so kind. To think that he had come out all the way from the office to visit her and make sure that she was all right; and to think he had bought beautiful roses and the biggest box of handmade chocolates she had ever seen! It must mean that he cared for her. And to think he had seen her looking like a complete ragbag! It was too much to bear. Sitting in Luke’s big leather chair, Dianne wept. Through eyes blurred with tears she caught sight of the framed photo of Devlin that Luke kept on his desk. She could feel anger and jealousy brewing up into a hot, bubbling rage. Picking up the photograph, she smashed it across the desk.
‘Bitch! Bitch! Bitch!’ she swore, as the glass smashed into a thousand tiny pieces all around her.
‘Certainly I can try to obtain an injunction against the paper, to prevent them from publishing the interview,’ Monica Finlay, Devlin’s solicitor, said in her crisp no-nonsense manner. ‘And I’m fairly sure I’ll be successful. But I’ve been thinking, Devlin . . . you’ve heard the radio advertisement. That will have whetted plenty of appetites. If we get the injunction we’re going to have to go to court. The press are going to be camping on your doorstep. Every other gutter publication is going to take up the story. I’m just wondering if you’d be better off to let them publish their damn interview and get it over with . . .’ She gave a wry smile. ‘You’re really in a no-win situation, Devlin. I know they’ll be getting away with it, but I’m trying to think what’s best for you in the long term.’
‘It’s so infuriating,’ Devlin replied. ‘I understand what you’re saying, Monica, but I just don’t want those bastards to get away with it. What do you think, Luke?’ She turned to where he was sitting over by the window.
Luke looked her straight in the eye. ‘I feel the same as you, Devlin, but I can see Monica’s point. Do you want to be stuck with legal wrangling for months on end? Do you want to have every newspaper in the country annoying you? That ad was very clever but its shock value and that of the interview will last just for the weekend. Next week, it will be someone else, and everybody will have forgotten about you. You’ll probably get a few odd looks from the clients in City Girl, but that will wear off. But if you take legal action, be prepared for a long hard slog.’
‘I don’t want them to get away with it,’ Devlin repeated.
‘Right then. If you feel that strongly, we’ll go for the injunction,’ Monica declared.
Devlin was really torn. She didn’t want months of legal hassle. She was already getting so many calls that she’d had to take the phone off the hook. The thoughts of being harassed by reporters and photographers was making her ill but, damn them, she wasn’t going to let them walk all over her. A thought struck her; a slow smile touched her lips.
‘Forget the injunction, Monica. I’ve just had an idea.’ Flicking through her Rolodex, she found the number she was looking for. Eyes sparkling, Devlin lifted the phone and began to dial.
Fifty-One
‘It was a very difficult choice to make,’ Devlin told the journalist sitting in front of her desk. ‘The baby’s father was insisting that I have an abortion. I flew to London and actually went to the clinic. Literally hours before the termination was due to take place, I decided I couldn’t go through with it.’
In the background, a photographer was lighting up the area around the window overlooking St Stephen’s Green, where she was going to have her photograph taken.
She was giving an interview to Sally Briers, a journalist she had known from the very early days of City Girl. She worked for the Daily Chronicle, one of the country’s most respected and successful newspapers. The Chronicle had jumped at the offer of an interview with Devlin, to be published in the next day’s weekend supplement, scooping the Sunday Echo’s much-advertised exposé.
In a frank interview, Devlin told her story. Not once did she mention Colin. Not that she had to! Anyone who read between the lines of the Sunday Echo’s innuendo would realize that he was the father of her baby. There was nothing that Devlin could do about that. That was a matter for Colin and the other paper, so let him handle it as best he could.
‘It must have been very difficult for you living in Ballymun,’ Sally was saying sympathetically.
‘Well, it was my own choice. My parents had no idea that I was living in a flat there. They thought I was living in Drumcondra. My father was always willing to give me financial support,’ Devlin explained, wanting to make sure that the interview showed Lydia as well as Gerry in a very positive light. ‘And certainly, while living there was far removed from what I was used to, I found great support and kindness among my neighbours there – and I made friends I will always cherish. Ballymun is a much-maligned place.’
When it came to talking about Lynn’s and Kate’s death, Devlin cried, and Sally asked her if she wanted to stop the interview, but she recovered her composure and went on to recount how, with Luke’s help, she had come to terms with her bereavement and gone on to become a very successful business-woman.
‘Devlin, I’m going to fly! I’m sure you’ll understand that I’ve got to get this in as quickly as possible. They’re holding the front page of the supplement for it. Thank God for modern technology.’ Sally was gleeful, knowing that in a matter of hours the interview that she would transcribe from her tape recorder would be safely stored in the computers of the newspaper and ready to be printed. Already, the marketing department had booked last-minute radio slots to advertise the scoop, and Sally had no doubt that Saturday’s edition of the Daily Chronicle would be sold out. It gave her a great sense of satisfaction to pull a fast one on the Sunday Echo, which was despised by the journalists on the respectable newspapers.
Devlin saw Sally and the photographer to the door and glanced at her watch. It was just gone eleven. Everything seemed to have happened so quickly – from the meeting with Monica to her brainwave about calling Sally. After they left, she deliberately walked into every section of the complex, making sure to speak to her staff and clients, letting them see that it was business as usual. Liz was filtering all her calls and the only ones she had taken concerned very urgent business matters. And, of course, one from Maggie, who told her to keep her chin up and ignore the whole shagging lot of them. Her father, too, had been very concerned for her, but Devlin had assured him everything was under control and that she would see him for dinner the following evening. She had managed to book a table in Patrick Guilbauds. Her adrenalin was flowing and she felt very much in control.
She popped her head through the door of Special Occasions. ‘Hi, Mum!’
‘Devlin! Are you all right, dear?’ Lydia looked a bit strained.
Devlin hugged her. ‘Never better, Mum. I’ve just come down to tell you that Luke’s taking us to lunch. He’s booked a table in The Commons for one-thirty.’
‘What!’ Lydia exclaimed. ‘The Commons? But it’s very . . . do you not think it’s a bit public . . . considering the circumstances. Why don’t we go for Lock
s? It’s very discreet and the food is out of this world.’
Devlin smiled at her mother. ‘Oh, I know. It’s one of my all-time favourites. Caroline and Maggie and I go there sometimes for lunch and we’ve often sat until after four. But today is not the day to be discreet, I’m afraid. It’s chest out, chin up and best foot forward. Come on, Mum,’ she urged. ‘We might as well have lunch and get a bit of a laugh out of it, and I might as well make the most of this make-up job Aoibhinn did for me for the photograph earlier on. Luke will be with us; he’s a real brick.’
‘He’s a very nice, supportive man, dear. I’m glad you found someone like him. Do you think they could fit me in for a professional make-up upstairs? There’s nothing like a make-up to pep you up and Aoibhinn did a lovely job on you.’
‘I’ll make sure they’ll fit you in. It’s handy being the boss sometimes,’ Devlin said with a grin. ‘See you about one-fifteen.’
‘Wow!’ Luke exclaimed appreciatively as he marched into Devlin’s office to collect his lunch companions. ‘No-one would ever believe you were mother and daughter. Sisters, maybe, but not mother and daughter!’
‘Fibber!’ Lydia retorted, but Devlin could see that her mother was pleased.
‘Let’s hit the town, ladies.’ Luke offered an arm to each, and, laughing, they linked him.
‘We’ll go straight to our table, please.’ Luke smiled at Devlin as a waiter took the women’s coats. Lifting her chin, she winked at her mother and they walked into the crowded restaurant.
It was, as usual, humming with chat and laughter and the clink of silverware against china. As Devlin, Luke and Lydia were led down the long narrow room to their table, a slight hush descended on the assembled lunchers. Out of the corner of her eye, Devlin recognized two of City Girl’s glamorous clients. They were staring at her open-mouthed. Devlin caught Luke’s glance. She could see that he too was aware that they were the focus of every eye in the room. They smiled at each other in genuine amusement. He was right; this was much better than skulking at home, as if she had something to be ashamed of.
City Woman Page 44
