City Woman Read online

  Luke lay back against the pillows and pulled her down beside him. ‘I feel very sorry for women: they really get the rough end of the stick. I wouldn’t presume even to try and imagine what you went through, or to try and imagine what it’s like to wait and find out if you’re pregnant after sex. And it’s something women have to face all the time. Devlin, I know this sounds selfish but I’m so glad I’m a man. I’m not going to have you under this pressure. Let’s forget about sex for a while. If you want to go for counselling or anything, I’ll be more than willing to go with you. I just want you to be happy.’

  ‘I love you, Luke,’ Devlin whispered.

  ‘I love you too. We’ll work this out, don’t worry,’ he assured her, switching out the light and putting his arms around her.

  She lay, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat while her eyes grew heavy. Her last conscious thought was that Luke Reilly was the best thing that had ever happened in her life. She knew he was right when he said they would work it out. She wanted to work it out. She wanted to experience the pleasure she had felt with Luke until she had panicked. She had suppressed her own sensuality for so long, probably as a form of self-protection. Well, she trusted Luke implicitly. And because she loved him she wanted to give him great pleasure too: the next time would be different, she promised herself as she fell asleep.

  Devlin slept really well that night. She had been pretty shattered, what with being up at the crack of dawn to get her flight, and then the shopping expedition, not to mention the emotional upheaval of last night. It was the first night she’d slept properly since her row with Luke at Dublin Airport and when she woke she felt totally relaxed, wondering sheepishly how she had got herself into such a state the night before.

  Luke was still asleep, and she leaned on her elbow and studied him as he lay there beside her, limbs sprawled all over the bed. His crisp, dark hair, tousled in sleep, gave him a faintly boyish air that made her smile. She gazed at the long sweep of his lashes and his straight well-shaped nose, down to his mouth, usually firm, now relaxed in sleep. He had a nice mouth, she thought, remembering his kisses of the night before. He had a nice body, too, she thought with a tingle of pleasure, looking at the broad expanse of his chest with its tangle of dark curly hair that narrowed to a thin line over his lean stomach and disappeared under the sheet that covered them. The pressure of his thigh against her own was intimate, and Devlin decided that it was lovely to share his bed.

  Luke’s eyes flicked open and Devlin smiled down at him. ‘Good morning, lazybones.’ She bent her head and kissed him. ‘I’m feeling terribly frustrated,’ she murmured against his lips, as her hand ran down the thin dark line of hair, past his waist and under the bedclothes. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  Luke’s hands slid down to her waist and then to the curve of her hips, as he moulded his body against hers.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’ he asked huskily, his eyes warm as he stared up at her.

  ‘You’re the expert. I’m just learning. Remember?’ Devlin teased, as she kissed him again, a long, slow, satisfying kiss, that left him in no doubt as to what she wanted him to do.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Luke was still a little concerned. ‘Don’t feel you have to force yourself to do it again so soon, Devlin.’

  ‘Do I look as if I’m forcing myself?’ Devlin rubbed the tip of her nose against his. ‘Luke, I really want to try again. I’ve missed out on so much; I’ve a lot of catching up to do. So stop playing hard to get . . .’

  This time, because she was relaxed and knew that Luke was aware of her hang-ups, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to welcome him into her body. She gloried in every precious moment of it. Afterwards, they lay smiling at each other until Luke glanced at the digital clock on his bedside table and said, ‘Well, Mata Hari, just as we were taking off, so was your flight from Heathrow.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Devlin happily. ‘I’m starving. What’s for breakfast?’

  Five

  For about the tenth time, Devlin rearranged the centrepiece of freesias on the table she had set for the lunch with her mother. She stood back and surveyed the effect. It did look nice, she had to admit, with its crisp fine linen tablecloth and starched napkins, and the silver and crystal sparkling in the mid-morning sun. It was such a beautiful day she had decided to have lunch outside on the big wide balcony that surrounded her penthouse on three sides, giving her a spectacular view of Dublin Bay and Howth. Big terracotta pots that matched the glazed Italian tiles were filled with a luscious variety of flowering shrubs, bedding plants and trailing ivies. Devlin loved her balcony: she always found it very therapeutic to slip into a tracksuit after a hard day at work and go out with her trowel. She would plant and feed and mulch and weed her pots, hanging baskets and window-boxes.

  This was her little haven, her refuge from City Girl and from the fairly hectic social life that she was leading as a result of all the invitations that arrived on her desk, now that she was a celebrity of sorts. More than anything, Devlin had come to enjoy Sundays. No matter what the weather, whether wild and stormy in the winter or warm and balmy as it was now, she went for brisk walks along the length of the Bull Island or by the Bull Wall, enjoying the tangy sea breeze. Devlin had grown to love living in Clontarf. She had all the enjoyment of living on the seafront close to Howth and Malahide, the loveliest parts of the north County Dublin coastline, and yet she was only ten minutes away from the city and work. Back from her walk, she always bought the Sunday papers and after a long lazy brunch would settle down to read them. In winter, she would curl up on the sofa in front of the fire and listen to the rain beating against the big ceiling-to-floor patio doors but in summer, she loved to lie on her lounger, feeling the heat of the sun. It was bliss to have those few precious hours to herself after the frenetic pace of her life during the week.

  It was Luke who had warned her that she was heading for a bad case of burn-out if she didn’t take more care of herself. He had watched her work non-stop seven days a week, morning, noon and night, before, during and after the opening of City Girl. The excitement of it had kept her going for the first few months and then she found it had become very difficult to relax. She had become thoroughly immersed in the business.

  One Sunday evening, Luke had called at the penthouse before flying back to London, to find her surrounded by papers as she worked on costings for shops in the mall.

  ‘Devlin, I’ve been in business for a lot longer than you, and one thing I learned was that only fools give everything they’ve got to a business seven days a week. I did it myself for too long, Devlin. Don’t make the same mistake. You need to unwind and relax and have time for yourself. You need to be able to set one day aside each week and say, ‘‘this is for me . . . and—’’ ’ he paused, eyes twinkling, ‘ ‘‘—me.’’ ’

  Devlin had ignored his advice until during the winter she had come down with a terrible dose of flu. She had had to spend three days in bed and for the rest of a week she was fit only for pottering around, flopping in front of the TV and catching up on the books, magazines and newspapers that had accumulated in an untidy pile in her bedroom. It was the longest period she had ever spent continuously in the penthouse and that week it was no longer a place where she slept and had the occasional meal: for the first time since she had bought it, the penthouse became home. She was quite enjoying doing nothing, she confessed to Maggie, who had called to visit, laden down with soups and casseroles and scones for the invalid.

  ‘You shouldn’t have had to wait until you were sick, you prat!’ Maggie retorted. ‘Try relaxing at weekends like us ordinary mortals.’

  From then on Devlin had made a conscious decision to put City Girl out of her mind on Sundays and relax totally. It had taken a bit of time and a lot of effort of will but now she was an expert. If everything went all right today maybe she’d be able to have her parents over occasionally for a meal on Sundays. She considered the possibilities as she strode into the kitchen
to put the finishing touches to the crème brûlée. It was ridiculous, she thought, as she crushed the caramel and arranged it decoratively around the rest of the dessert, to have butterflies in her stomach because her own mother was coming to visit.

  She sighed, absentmindedly popping a piece of the caramel into her mouth. Despite the fact that Lydia Delaney had told her that she was an adopted child and that her real mother was Lydia’s dead sister, Devlin would always think of Lydia as her mother. Not a great mother perhaps: a mother who had wanted nothing to do with her when she had found that Devlin was pregnant, a mother who had made the lives of her husband and daughter a misery with her binge-drinking. It was something that only the two of them knew about as Lydia wouldn’t dream of getting drunk in front of her society friends. Lydia had her faults all right; nevertheless as far as Devlin was concerned Lydia was the only mother she had ever known and after all this time, she hoped fervently that things could improve between them.

  Devlin slid the completed brûlée into the fridge and walked over to the cooker where her homemade tomato and tarragon soup was wafting out an enticing aroma. Blanched orange strips and freshly chopped tarragon were ready as garnish for the soup. In ten minutes she’d boil the water to steam the new potatoes and broccoli and diced carrots. The meal was under control: that at least was something. Deftly, she sliced the brown bread. Superquinn brown bread was one of her greatest weaknesses and she would normally have buttered herself a slice and eaten it as she cooked lunch. But today she couldn’t face it. In spite of her best intentions, her stomach was tied up in knots. It was so long since she had seen Lydia, well over a year, and their last meeting had been one of bitterness: Devlin had lain injured and devastated in a hospital bed, recovering from the accident that had killed her daughter and aunt. She had told her mother she didn’t want to see her again.

  For so long, Devlin had carried the bitterness inside, despite the best efforts of her father, Gerry, to reconcile her with her mother. It was only in the last few months that her anger and bitterness had dissipated somewhat. Luke, who had been so close to his own father before he died, had tried to make her see that in her own way Lydia had suffered as much as Devlin. She had mulled over his words and at her weekly lunches with her father had gradually started asking after Lydia. Gerry had told her that after the accident she had gone in to St Gabriel’s in Cabinteely for a couple of weeks of psychiatric care. She wouldn’t admit that she was an alcoholic but at least she had stopped drinking and hadn’t been on a binge in months. The estrangement with Devlin was causing her great anguish, Gerry had told his daughter, and Lydia blamed herself totally.

  Coming to the decision to phone her mother and arrange to meet her had not been easy, but after she had taken the step, Devlin had felt a keen sense of relief. Lydia had been uncharacteristically nervous on the phone, something that surprised Devlin. There had been a stunned silence when Devlin had said, ‘Hello, Mum,’ and when she had suggested they meet for lunch, Devlin realized that Lydia was crying. This had shocked her. Her mother was not a person who showed her emotions easily, let alone cried. At first, Devlin had planned to meet in a restaurant, but then impulsively she had suggested that Lydia come to lunch in the penthouse. Thinking about it afterwards, Devlin decided it had been the right thing to do: it was much more personal than meeting in a restaurant.

  She walked from her grey-and-green kitchen into the lounge and tried to view it as Lydia would, seeing it for the first time. Her mother had superb taste and the family home in Foxrock was a model. She hadn’t done too badly herself, Devlin decided, as she viewed her large bright lounge with its French doors framed by gold brocade curtains that made the room cosy in winter. The gold of the curtains was picked up in the cream and gold of the carpet. Two sofas in cream chintz with hints of peach were placed in an L-shape by the fire and in front of them she had a lovely square glass-topped coffee table on which, that day, reposed another vase of freesias. The alcoves on each side of the chimney breast contained fitted cream bookshelves on one side and a television and video unit and stereo deck in the other. Slim peach candlesticks and wide pleated peach lampshades stood in the corners of the room and at night their glow gave an atmosphere of comforting warmth. It was a feminine room, light and airy in summer, warm and cosy in winter.

  The dining-room was decorated in pink and grey with elegant black ash furniture. Devlin used it only on the rare occasions she had a formal dinner. When Maggie and Caroline visited, they always ate in the kitchen unless they were guests at one of Devlin’s dinner parties.

  She slipped into the bedroom and cast her eye around. The restful green-and-white room with its matching en suite bathroom was looking far tidier than normal. No longer did sheets of figures and files from the office clutter up the top of the fitted drawers that edged two walls. The panelled doors of her Sliderobes had been dusted and polished and the mirror panels gleamed and sparkled after a good application of Windolene. Devlin had been shocked at the dust that had come off the screen of the portable television set which sat on top of the long bank of drawers and, shamed, she had promised herself that she was going to polish and dust at least once a week.

  The second bedroom, decorated in cream and yellow, had got the same treatment and at least, thought Devlin in satisfaction, her spring cleaning, though a tad late, had been completed. Devlin straightened the bedspread that matched the curtains and lampshades and, spotting some dust on the top of the headboard, she picked a cream tissue out of the box on the bedside locker and flicked it off.

  She caught sight of herself in the mirrored wardrobe. Was she too casually dressed, she wondered, eyeing her white cotton trousers and cerise shirt dubiously. Her sleek blonde bob would come as a surprise to her mother, she thought with some amusement. Anxious not to be seen as a bimbo Devlin had taken stock of her public image. The reappraisal had been occasioned by the gossip columnist of the Sunday Echo, who had written a piece headed, ‘Blonde! Beautiful! But has she the Brains to keep it going?’ that had enraged her. Gone was the flowing blonde mane, gone were the two-tight and too-short skirts. Now she wore well-tailored suits and skirts that ended barely above the knee for business meetings or interviews. She had to admit ruefully that the image she presented was of someone older and more sophisticated than her mid-twenties. But then that was the business. At home, she much preferred casual clothes and used very little make-up.

  Maybe she should put on a bit of lipstick and mascara. Lydia, who was always perfectly groomed, might think she did not consider her mother worth the bother if she used no make-up at all. A lightly tanned face with troubled aquamarine eyes, a full determined mouth and good bone structure stared back at her from the mirror. She could see a line at each side of her mouth that hadn’t been there this time last year, and when she smiled she noticed faint creases around her eyes. It didn’t bother her: she had earned them; she had gone from being a spoilt, immature, selfish young girl to a thoughtful and very independent woman.

  Having a baby and losing her had had the most profound effect on Devlin. She knew she would never ever get over Lynn’s death. A wave of despair swept through her even at the thought of it. Her heartache had a physicality about it that only someone who had experienced it could understand. There were times when the desire to hold a toddler in her arms was overpowering. Playing with Mimi and Shona, Maggie’s two little girls, was such a bittersweet experience. There wasn’t much difference between Lynn’s and Mimi’s age – just a few months. They could have been pals and grown up to enjoy a great sustaining friendship like their mothers had. When she saw Mimi and heard her chatting away nineteen to the dozen and saw the personality she was developing, she couldn’t help wondering what Lynn would have been like at that stage.

  It was so painful that Devlin rarely allowed herself to think of her daughter. She buried the grief deep inside, keeping herself totally occupied with City Girl. She had kept a few of Lynn’s clothes, including the dress she was wearing the day of the accident. She had n
ever washed it. Sometimes when the ache was too much to bear and wouldn’t be denied, she would take it out and bury her face in it, smelling the sweet talcy scent of her daughter. ‘Oh God, why did you do this to me? After all I went through to have her? I could have aborted her and I didn’t. Why did you take her away from me?’ It was an anguished howl that came from her lips and she sank to her knees and bowed her head and wept. Why did this have to happen today, just when she needed to be in control! Devlin took several deep shuddering breaths. Her mother would be here any minute. What would she think if she saw her like this?

  She went into the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face and red-rimmed eyes. She sat on the edge of the bath, holding a damp cloth to her face, and when she took it away it was covered in lipstick and mascara. She redid her make-up and brushed her hair and soon she looked all right again. Devlin tidied up the bathroom and went back to the kitchen to boil the water for the potatoes. What was she going to talk to her mother about? There was such a chasm between them.

  Well, at least the view and the gardens that surrounded the apartment complex would be a talking point. Lydia had a great interest in gardening: her own looked good enough to feature in a glossy magazine. They could talk about Gerry, too, about City Girl, maybe. Lydia had never been to the complex. Devlin would like to offer her membership. Many of her mother’s friends had joined and they were always asking when Lydia was going to take the plunge. There were loads of things they could discuss, Devlin reassured herself as she buttered the brown bread. Honestly, it was pathetic having to think of things to talk to her mother about. How she envied Maggie her relationship with Nelsie. Nelsie might moan a bit and take advantage now and then but at heart they had a truly close relationship, and whenever Devlin had been in their company she had enjoyed listening to them natter. She and Lydia had never had that kind of a relationship, even when things were all right between them. Now they had no relationship to speak of. Would today help? It was hard to know.