Apartment 3B Read online

  Running a hand over his stubbled jaw, Hugh finished his coffee and headed for the bathroom. He had a busy day ahead and dawdling around Donnybrook Mews wouldn’t get anything done. He must call into Quinnsworth in Mount Merrion at some stage. There was nothing in the fridge and his daily was on holidays. Maybe he’d cook Liz dinner for a change. She much preferred dinner à deux to going out to any of Dublin’s trendy eateries. Of course he loved eating out. Eat and be seen was part and parcel of maintaining a high profile, and Hugh Cassidy’s profile was the highest around. He intended it to be even higher.

  Twenty minutes later Hugh was shaved, showered and out the door. Chicken Kiev would do fine for tonight, or maybe moussaka, Liz loved his moussaka. He pointed his Saab in the direction of RTE. It was 6.30 a.m.

  CLAIRE

  Claire Moran added her daughter’s birthday card to the ones already displayed on the chipped mantelpiece of her Drumcondra bedsit. It was a beautiful card, thoughtfully chosen, and on it her daughter had written simply, ‘Mum you are the best. Love, Suzy.’ It was postmarked Singapore.

  She was so lucky to have a daughter like Suzy. It was incredible that she, who had suffered such traumas in her young life, had overcome them all, stood on her own two feet, and was now sailing her way around the world, a globe-trotting nineteen-year-old stewardess with Cunard.

  When Claire was not much more than Suzy’s age, she had been a wife and mother, totally dependent on her husband. Looking back on it now from her eyrie of independence, she wondered how she had stuck it for so long. Of course she had known no better. She hadn’t even realized for years of her marriage just how unhappy and unfulfilled she was. Claire shuddered, thinking of her past and the person she had been, so unquestioning and passive. She surely had changed, though. Claire was not the innocent, obedient young wife of nineteen years ago. By God she wasn’t!

  She might have lived the last ten months alone in her Drumcondra bedsit, a far cry from the large red-bricked house in Glasnevin that had been her marital home for so many years, but she was her own woman. At thirty-eight years of age, Claire Moran was a woman of independent means. She smiled ruefully. Well, better late than never. Besides she was certainly only hitting her prime. She had never felt as fit nor looked so well. Thank God she had got over her guilt about spending money at the hairdresser’s or in a beauty salon. Up to a few years ago she had always done her own hair. ‘What would you be wasting money going to a hairdresser’s for? Sure isn’t that what you were when I married you?’ Sean, her husband, had once asked in genuine surprise, when she asked him for the money to go and get her hair done. They had been going to his youngest sister’s wedding. She had never made the request again.

  Claire should have known better, of course. Sean had no time for female fripperies, as he termed them, assuring her that she looked much more wholesome and natural without that muck that women put on their faces. Her soft chestnut hair, shot through with glints of gold, had been worn in a bob throughout the years of her marriage. Claire ran long fingers through her silky locks, feeling the feathery layers slide through her fingers. Oh, she was a changed woman all right. Physically as well as mentally. Gone was the bob, in its place a sophisticated layered style that framed her oval face. Well-defined arched eyebrows, tinted to match her hair, emphasized wide hazel eyes that were flecked with green. Her skin, creamy and unlined, belied her thirty-eight years, and only the faint lines grooved around her mouth gave a hint to the hardships she had endured.

  Sipping her tea, Claire moved over to one of the windows of her high-ceilinged room. It was early yet and the street was still quiet; only a scrawny cat yowling as he slid out of a dustbin broke the silence. A cherry tree, its branches laden with delicate pink blossoms, grew outside her window. For the past few weeks, Claire had spent a few minutes each morning gazing on its beauty. It was only a short time that it was in bloom. She wouldn’t be here this time next year. Maybe not even this time next month. She felt a little tingle of excitement. Today was the day, the day she was going to view Apartment 3B. What luck that it had come on the market just when she was in a position to buy it. How many times had she passed the Mountain View complex and wished she could afford to live there.

  ‘Go for it, Mum!’ her daughter had urged when Claire had told her of her plans. It would be ideal for both of them, really, if Claire could buy the apartment in Glasnevin. At least Suzy would have a proper bed for the times she came to stay, instead of having to sleep on the sofa-bed as she did in the bedsit. Mind, she had done a lot with the room, she thought proudly, casting an eye around. Decorated in lemon and white, it was a far cry from the grim-looking room she had first set foot in ten months before. It had been truly awful. The previous tenant had obviously been colour-blind or in a very depressive state and the olive-green and brown colour scheme had been the most unwelcoming sight she had encountered in her quest for a place to live. Weary, heartsore at the shambles that was her life, Claire had taken the room. The rent was not exorbitant, she liked the street, and somehow she had known that her life would change – and for the better.

  As her life had changed, so had her bedsit. Out went the olive and brown and in their place a light lemon and white that made the room seem twice as large and so airy and bright. It was incredible, the difference that a coat of paint had made, and psychologically the change had given her a lift, helped her a little to come out of the frightening depression that she had lived with ever since that awful, terrifying day. Claire’s eyes darkened in pain and sadness. Who could believe what had happened? David, her lovely quiet son. How could he have done such a thing?

  Stop it right now! Claire made the image go away. She must never look back. She and Suzy had made a pact about this the last time her daughter was home and it had helped. Today of all days was not the time for painful memories. Today was a day to be positive. Taking a deep breath Claire walked over to her tiny kitchenette which was hidden behind Japanese screens, and rinsed out her cup in the cracked sink. Briskly slipping out of her nightdress, she pulled on a tracksuit, inserted her Callanetics tape into her video and began to do her workout. She knew the routine well and the gentle stretching movements that had made her body limber and supple came easily to her. Doing the exercises always cleared her mind and refreshed her. It was hard to believe that a year ago she had been a physical wreck. She’d even started to believe that she was a hypochondriac.

  Thank God for Emma Morris and her acupuncture clinic. She had made such a difference. With her gentle but firm guidance, Claire had taken control of her life in a way that she had never thought possible. Her energy levels were so high now that she was rarely tired, unlike the drained exhausted person she used to be. Sean would never have got used to her. That was twice now that she had thought about her husband, and the surprising thing was that she no longer felt the surging hatred, the bitterness. Claire sighed deeply. It had come as a shock to her to discover how hard and unforgiving a person she could be. She had seen a side to herself that had frightened her. Even her father, who had treated her mother so badly, who had made her own life a misery and at whose graveside she had stood without shedding a single tear of regret at his passing had not ignited such passionate hatred as she had felt towards her husband. It was no wonder she had nearly cracked up, carrying the burden of such violent emotions, repressing them, swallowing them down inside her. She knew what hell was like; she had been there. If Emma Morris had not taught her to release the past and let it go, she wouldn’t be here today, eager and excited at the step she was going to take, hoping to buy an apartment for herself and her elderly mother to live in.

  Imagine, owning her own home! Decorating it to her taste. Having a double bed all to herself! Claire grinned. She would definitely get a double bed for the apartment if she bought it. She’d had enough of single divans. With a double bed, you could spread yourself out, read the papers in comfort, not having to dive after the supplement that invariably ended up on the floor. And the bathroom! Both bedrooms had the
ir own bathroom in Apartment 3B. Oh the joy of not having to share! Not with husbands, children, or tenants. It was a long time since she had lolled in a bath. The bathroom she shared here was hopeless. The immersion heater was small and so the bath-water barely came over the top of her thighs. You wouldn’t stay in it for long even if you were so inclined. When she lived with her husband, his thrift had precluded the taking of luxurious soaks. His Puritan spirit was offended by waste or self-indulgence so she had got into the habit of a quick five-minute wash that was not in the least pleasurable. Oh yes, she had so many things to catch up on, so much to experience and enjoy. Thank God, Suzy and Rosie, her best friend, had made her see sense about taking the money.

  ‘You’re entitled to it, Mum!’ Suzy had exclaimed over and over again. ‘It’s yours as much as his. You’ve contributed a lifetime to him and the house. Don’t dare feel bad about taking that money!’

  It had surprised Claire that her daughter was so vehement. But then Suzy was a different young woman from what she had ever been. So independent of spirit. So eager to experience life. How had she and Sean ever managed to produce a daughter so different from them? Again sadness engulfed her. David, her son, had been like her, even in looks. The big hazel eyes that had the same trusting direct way of looking at you, the same rich chestnut hair . . . ‘Oh David, David, why did you do it. Didn’t you know I loved you?’ The cry was torn from her, the tears slid down her cheeks. She didn’t try to prevent them. ‘Cry, cry plenty if you have to, it’s much better to let it all go,’ Emma had told her many times at their sessions and indeed it was a relief to cry, to feel her feelings pouring out of her instead of her repressing them as she had once done.

  Claire sat quietly on the tatty carpet of her bedsit, her Callanetics forgotten about. It was a while now since she’d had a good old bawl, and that was a good sign, it must be the day that was in it. When David was small, he always made her some little special thing or drew her a picture, on her birthday. Children could give such joy and such sorrow. Taking a deep breath, Claire wiped her eyes, blew her nose and rewound the video.

  She’d want to get a move on, she thought briskly. She had some clients to visit before she left for her viewing appointment. It was wonderful to be a working woman again. The satisfaction of earning her own salary was indescribable. Sean had been so against her going back to work and, looking back, Claire could see how absolutely threatened he must have felt as he saw his power over her being eroded. Mercifully, she had stuck to her guns. It had been a life-saver going back to work after so many years. How lucky she was to have a friend like Rosie. Now they were in partnership together and business was booming. Wasn’t it strange that such a simple idea could have taken off so quickly. The notion of CALL ’n’ CUT had come to her one day when an old-age pensioner had come into the salon where she worked and confided chattily in her.

  ‘I’ve got a bird’s nest on top of my head, dear. Please do something with it, I couldn’t get down the past few weeks because I’d an awful dose of asthma. Mind ye, if I look bad, Betsy next door looks as though she’s got a hay-rick on hers. She broke her leg, ye know, and can’t get out. She’s looking for condensation from the Corpo.’

  Claire hid a smile. Mrs O’Neill sometimes got her words a little mixed up. It was like the time she had come in to the salon, a little the worse for wear, the sherry fumes unmistakable. Seeing Mrs Burke, with whom she was engaged in a long-running feud, sitting, hair dripping, just about to have her rollers inserted, she sniffed loudly and said, ‘I’m particular about who I have me hair cut with. Some people just lower the tone of the place.’

  ‘Shut up, you drunken old virago,’ Mrs Burke retorted, stung.

  ‘Watch who you’re insulting you or I’ll sue you for definition of character,’ Mrs O’Neill retorted haughtily, staggering ever so slightly as she weaved her way out, leaving Claire, and everyone else in the salon, speechless. Life was never boring with the likes of Mrs O’Neill and Mrs Burke. Soft-hearted, as always, Claire had called into Mrs O’Neill’s neighbour and given her a shampoo and set at home. The elderly lady had insisted upon paying and rather than upset her Claire took the money, understanding the old lady’s desire for independence. From then on, she was frequently asked to come and do some of the elderly people’s hair at home. It was quite obvious that the need for home hairdressing was there. The sick, elderly, housebound, were all people who called on her for service and it was because of this that CALL ’n’ CUT was born.

  In casual conversation with Rosie, she had mentioned the need for a mobile hairdressing service and her friend thought it was a brilliant idea. Claire had never thought of it in terms of a business, but Rosie, who was a very successful businesswoman, had seen the potential and done her market research. It had paid off. Between them they had bought a small salon, got business cards printed and launched CALL ’n’ CUT. Soon they had to employ another hairdresser, so successful was their venture. They were extremely busy but Claire revelled in it, so delighted was she by what they had achieved. It was all her idea, it was working, she was in business and things were really looking up.

  A knock at her door startled her out of her reverie. It was Pete, her neighbour from across the hall, bearing a cheerful bunch of daffodils. ‘Happy Birthday,’ he grinned, planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Rick and me are treating you to dinner tonight so don’t go making plans.’

  ‘Ah, Pete!’ she gasped, overwhelmed.

  ‘Ah Pete nothing! We’re only going to Some Like It Hot, but they do a lovely chicken in pitta bread.’ The younger man smiled affectionately. ‘And anyway we’re just keeping in with you because you give us free haircuts.’

  Claire laughed. ‘You pair!’

  ‘See you later then?’ He raised a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Sure thing,’ she agreed, cheerfully waving after him as he walked out the front door on his way to college. A thought struck her and she smiled broadly. You’d never know, she might have good news to tell them tonight if she liked what she saw at the viewing. She was dying to see Apartment 3B. The last time her mother was up from Knockross, they had walked around the grounds admiring the superb complex, little thinking that they might one day be hoping to buy one of the luxurious apartments. Molly would be thrilled if Claire and she could buy it. Claire had seen a few places already but as far as she was concerned, Apartment 3B would be ideal for them and she had her heart set upon buying it. Humming to herself, she started to get ready for her big day.

  LAINEY

  Lainey Conroy fastened her seat-belt and sat back in her seat, waiting for the British Airways BAC 1–11 to take off from Rome’s Fiumicino airport. Idly she wondered just how many flights she had been on. It must be well into the thousands by now. Not that long before she had been winging her way around the world as an air hostess with Eastern Gulf Airlines. It had been hard work, that was for sure, but she had seen the world and saved enough money to buy her own apartment. It was thanks to her job with Eastern Gulf that later today she would be going to view Apartment 3B with the intention of buying it. Lainey couldn’t wait. She watched the BA hostess explaining where the exits were and demonstrating how to operate the oxygen masks and life-jackets. Once when she had been doing the very same thing her life-jacket had inflated and she’d had to stand like the Michelin man with her face straight, finishing the demonstration while her colleagues fell about laughing at her dilemma. Lainey smiled at the memory.

  People thought it was such a glamorous job, all that travelling and staying in top-class hotels, but they didn’t know the half of it. Not, of course, that Lainey was going to let on to the people back home that it had been anything other than a prestigious career. She was looked up to in the village. People pointed her out, impressed by her designer clothes, her sophisticated woman-of-the-world air. She was a long way from the little country hick who had first come to Dublin in search of a job. No! Lainey chided herself, well maybe not a hick, she had never been a hick. She had always been the one people follo
wed, always the class leader.

  With a roar, the jet raced down the runway and they were airborne. Not a bad take-off, she noted absently and smiled, amused at herself. Relaxing in her seat she unclipped her belt and accepted a drink from a smiling steward. She hoped that no-one had bought Liz’s apartment yet. What a pity she hadn’t known that the other woman had intended to sell before she put it in the hands of the auctioneers. They could have come to a private arrangement and done a deal between them. From what Dominic told her the price Liz expected to make was just within her range.

  Her eyes softened as she thought of Dominic Kent. They’d been lovers for almost nine years now and the thought of seeing him always gave her a warm glow. She had met many men in her lifetime, dated a few, but there were only two men that she had ever truly loved and one of them it had taken a long time to get over.

  Still the little dart to the heart after all these years when she thought of Steve McGrath. His rejection of her still rankled. Every time she saw him with Helena, his wife, she hated him. Many times she had told herself to forget him, forget the past, but she could not. Not even Dominic would ever erase Steve from her heart and mind. It was as though she needed the bitterness to spur her on to succeed. Each promotion, each goal achieved on the ladder of success was to show Steve that she could do it, that she was better off without him. If she had married him she would have ended up still living in Moncas Bay, mistress of Fourwinds, trapped for ever in the seaside village. Oh no, she had done much much better for herself. She had travelled the world, attained class and sophistication, far more than Helena McGrath ever had, for all her affluence. Helena would be deeply impressed when she heard that Lainey had bought an apartment. No, a penthouse sounded even better. Lainey was sure she’d be pea-green with envy.