City Woman (53 page)

‘I’ll just get my bag and coat, Lucinda. You really are persuasive. No wonder you’re so good at what you do. Rhona, I’m just going to lunch.’ Lydia walked over to
where her young assistant was arranging a display of red, yellow and white roses. Roses were the only flowers that Special Occasions stocked. Lydia had discovered that many men liked to buy roses
to go with the lovely lingerie they bought for wives, girlfriends and mistresses. ‘I won’t be long, dear,’ she murmured. ‘If I’m delayed, close up and have something
in the Coffee Dock.’

‘OK, Mrs Delaney. I’ll see you later.’

‘Splendid,’ declared Lucinda, wishing to God that Lydia would hurry up and get the hell out of the boutique. It was only when they were walking down a frosty, sunlit Grafton Street
that the gossip columnist gave a mental sigh of relief and started to relax. Phase One successfully carried out. But Phase Two would be much trickier. She had spent a fortune in Special Occasions.
Having lunch in The Seven Hills was not for the financially fainthearted. If she didn’t pull this off, she was going to have to deal with a very irate accountant and an unimpressed editor.
And people think I have the life of Riley, Lucinda reflected as she led the way into the softly lit, soothing reception area of the plush restaurant just off Wicklow Street. If they made any fuss
because she hadn’t booked or if she didn’t get a table, there’d be hell to pay. Fortunately there were very few restaurants in Dublin where Lucinda Marshall was refused a table.
It was more than anyone’s job was worth to get on the wrong side of her.

‘Miss Marshall! A delight. Table for two?’ The smiling young man at reception greeted them. ‘Please have a drink at the bar while the maître d’ sees to your
table.’ He ushered them into a small secluded bar where a log fire burned brightly and told the barman, ‘Whatever the ladies want, it’s on the house.’ He left them with
Lucinda trying to persuade Lydia to have a Kir, and Lydia refusing very firmly, saying a Ballygowan would do her fine.

Sticking his head into the kitchen the receptionist announced glumly, ‘That Marshall bitch from the
Sunday Echo
is out front. Let’s take no chances!’

‘Mama fuckin’ mia,’ moaned the chef-proprietor. He was suffering from a severe hangover and he knew it was going to be a hell of a long day. Lucinda Marshall was the last thing
he needed right now.

Hell, thought Lucinda, as she observed Lydia sipping her sparkling water. How was she ever going to loosen Devlin’s mother’s tongue if she sat sipping mineral water! Phase Two was
turning out to be a lot trickier than she had anticipated. Excusing herself to go to the powder room, Lucinda slipped into the restaurant and had a word in the maître d’s ear.

Forty-Seven

‘How sweet!’ trilled Lucinda, as she saw the champagne on ice that awaited them at their table.

‘Our pleasure, Miss Marshall,’ the maître d’ said suavely as he seated the ladies.

‘Have some, Lydia; do,’ urged Lucinda.

‘Maybe later,’ Lydia said non-committally.

‘It’s Dom Perignon, darling,’ Lucinda said a little tartly.

‘So I see,’ smiled Lydia. ‘Enjoy it, Lucinda.’

Lucinda sipped the champagne sorrowfully. Imagine not getting excited over Dom Perignon; now
that
was sophistication. Lucinda Marshall had never forgotten that she was born on the wrong
side of the tracks, in what nowadays would be called a socially deprived family. Deserted by her father, with an alcoholic mother, she had hauled her way up to social prominence by relentless
climbing, erasing her background completely and inventing a totally new past for herself.

No-one knew of her past except her first husband, and he was dead. Her second husband, an inoffensive retired architect a decade older than she, had believed every word of the story she had told
him: of how her doctor father and artist mother had been killed in a car crash when she was very young. Lucinda often thanked God that she had no siblings to reveal that her mother had died in an
asylum. Privately, Lucinda acknowledged to herself that Lydia had natural elegance and sophistication that she could never aspire to no matter how hard she tried. Lydia had been born to it; Lucinda
had acquired hers. Lydia Delaney was a very cultured lady, and listening to her as she spoke enthusiastically about her business, answering the questions that Lucinda put to her for her so-called
‘Women in Their Prime’ interview, the columnist half-wished that she was doing the interview for real.

Doing her Grapevine column gave her a very high profile but she knew that to many she was just a figure of fun and not taken seriously as a journalist. There were times when she chafed at this,
times when she longed to show her peers that she could do as good a probing serious interview as the rest of them without resorting to gossip and innuendo. But it was too late now: she was what she
was.

‘And the amazing thing is, Lucinda, women are buying sexy lingerie for themselves. Lots of my customers are women from City Girl who want to treat themselves to something nice, not because
it’s what a husband or boyfriend wants to see them in but because they want to have something nice and expensive and sensual to wear. I think that’s great, don’t you? It’s a
far cry from when I was a young woman,’ Lydia laughed.

‘Mmm, me too; my mother would have called me a slut.’ The words were out of Lucinda’s mouth almost before she realized it. For God’s sake, get with it, Lucinda admonished
herself. She was not here to empathize with Lydia Delaney: she was here to get the goods on her daughter Devlin. They were waiting for dessert and she noted with satisfaction that Lydia was quite
relaxed. Unobtrusively she leaned over and filled Lydia’s champagne glass, topping up her own at the same time, while asking a question about whether the current recession was having an
effect on business.

Lydia wrinkled her brow and almost absentmindedly took a sip from the glass of champagne. ‘A certain class of people will always have money, Lucinda,’ she answered. ‘I’m
sure you find that yourself. I can’t say there’s been a noticeable fall-off in business.’ She suddenly realized that she had taken a sip of champagne. What on earth was she doing?
She hadn’t touched alcohol in months. Not since Devlin’s accident when she had gone on that horrific binge. After that she had gone into St Gabriel’s for a rest, as she called it
herself, but in reality to dry out. Lydia had never acknowledged to herself that she was an alcoholic. Sometimes there had been gaps between her binges lasting for months, and she had never allowed
herself to get drunk in public. Nevertheless, after her time in St Gabriel’s, she had consciously abstained from drink and all in all, she had to admit, her life was much the better for
it.

The champagne was lovely, though! The one little glass wouldn’t harm her, she reasoned. Really, she was having such a pleasant time. Lucinda was a most charming hostess and she was so
interested in Lydia’s success. She had always thought of her as a trashy journalist, but there was a serious side to the other woman and from the intelligent questions she was asking about
Special Occasions, Lydia could see that there was a sharp brain ticking away behind all the glitz and glamour. She really was quite pleased with the way the interview was progressing.

‘What does your husband think about your success?’ Lucinda smiled, gazing wide-eyed at Lydia as she refilled the glasses. It was a trick she had perfected over the years. Make
eye-contact. Ask the question, and the victims never even notice that their glass is being filled to the brim, while your own is half-empty.

‘Gerry’s delighted for me,’ said Lydia, beaming and taking another sip of Dom Perignon.

‘Really! Isn’t it wonderful to have a supportive husband!’ Lucinda cried, watching in satisfaction as Lydia sipped more of the sparkling golden liquid.

An hour later Lydia Delaney was plastered. Lucinda was amazed at how quickly she had gone from the giggly stage to the faint slurring of the words and the unsteady focus of the eyes. Mind, it
had taken another bottle of champagne, most of which Lydia, unbeknown to herself, had drunk.

Very discreetly, Lucinda placed her clutch-bag on the table and pretended to search for a tissue. Casually, she drew her miniature tape recorder out towards the flap, and clicked it on, all the
while engaging Lydia in conversation.

‘You must be so proud of Devlin,’ she murmured. ‘All she’s achieved after all she’s been through. You know, the baby and everything . . .’ Lucinda held her
breath as Lydia focused on her with some difficulty. Tears came to the other woman’s eyes and her lip trembled.

‘I am very proud of my darling.’

‘I know you are,’ Lucinda said sympathetically. ‘I have no children of my own, but I can imagine the heartbreak they can cause. It must be so hard being a mother.’

‘I wasn’t much of a mother, Lucinda, I told her she couldn’t come back home with the baby and made her go off to London for an abortion. Oh no, I wasn’t much of a mother
at all.’ Lydia shook her head and two large tears trickled down her cheeks.

Jesus! thought Lucinda, half-shocked, half-excited. This was it! She looked around to see that no-one else was looking and thanked God for their secluded little alcove. Leaning over she reached
across and patted Lydia’s hand. ‘But she didn’t have the abortion, sure she didn’t?’ she asked soothingly. Lydia slowly shook her head and drank another glass of
champagne in several quick gulps.

‘I told her I never wanted to see her or the baby again. I cast my daughter out of my life and she ended up living in Ballymun. Imagine! How could I do it? I’ll never forgive myself.
If it wasn’t for me, that baby would probably still be alive.’ Lydia was quietly sobbing.

‘Shush, shush, don’t distress yourself.’ Lucinda waved away the maître d’, who was discreetly hovering.

‘What happened to the baby, darling?’ Lucinda continued to pat Lydia’s hand in a very comforting fashion.

‘She was killed in an accident: a juggernaut smashed into the car in Wexford . . . Oh, I can’t bear to talk about it. I’ll never ever forgive myself for what I did to Devlin.
That awful night I told her she was adopted and I accused her of sleeping with a Portuguese gigolo!’ She gave a little hiccup. ‘—And you know Lucinda. It was that bastard, Colin
Cantrell-King. He was the father and he wanted to pay for the abortion. I’d love to knife him for what he did to my little girl. He seduced her and used her and turned his back on her when
she needed him. Just like I did.’ It all came tumbling out like water from behind a dam. Lydia was sobbing harshly and Lucinda was sitting open-mouthed with shock. Devlin adopted! Colin
Cantrell-King the father of her dead child! Talk about hitting the jackpot!

Lucinda switched off her tape recorder. She had all she needed to know and a hell of a lot more. Time to get Lydia home before she drew attention to them. ‘Let’s go to the
ladies’, pet,’ she urged, helping Lydia to her feet. Handing the maître d’ her Visa card, she hissed, ‘Order a taxi.’

Fortunately, there were only two other couples in the restaurant and no-one in the ladies’ room. Lucinda sighed with relief, sat Lydia down in one of the chairs and handed her tissues as
the distraught woman sobbed her heart out. She found to her horror that a lump was rising in her own throat at the other woman’s obvious distress.

‘Stop crying, Lydia,’ she pleaded. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. Devlin’s got over her past. Look at her, she’s so well-adjusted and successful, she’s
put it all behind her.’

Lydia looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Devlin will never get over what’s happened to her. She just puts up a very good façade. I know: I’m her mother and no-one can
tell
me
anything about putting up a façade.’ Lucinda was sorely tempted to ask who Devlin’s real mother was. But even she, hard-nosed gossip columnist, felt she could
not intrude on this woman’s grief and pry into her deepest secrets a moment longer, scoop or no scoop. Now that she had what she was looking for, it didn’t feel so great. How would
she
feel if someone got her drunk and winkled her deepest secrets out of her? It was a question Lucinda did not care to answer.

Feeling some responsibility for the state her guest was in, Lucinda got into the taxi with Lydia and asked for her address. Morosely, Lydia gave the required information, her tongue tripping
over her words. ‘Lucinda, you won’t mention any of this in my interview, sure you won’t? I shouldn’t have said anything, I shouldn’t have had the champagne. Promise
me.’

‘It won’t appear in your interview. Not a word.’ Lucinda was not telling a lie, she thought uncomfortably. It wasn’t Lydia’s interview the shocking revelations
would appear in . . .

She helped her out of the taxi and into her luxurious house, admiring the exquisite decor and thinking how nice it would photograph for the
Echo
’s ‘At Home
With—’ series. Lucinda could never have dreamt that she was so bad at holding her drink, though. It had been like taking candy from a baby. Phase Two had been more successful than her
wildest dreams. She helped Lydia slip out of her suit, removed her shoes and eased her down under the quilt on her queen-sized bed. ‘You’ll be fine after a little nap,’ she
assured her.

‘Don’t report anything I said in the interview. Promise,’ she slurred, and then her voice trailed away and she passed out.

Quietly, Lucinda slipped out of the bedroom and downstairs to the waiting taxi.

‘The
Sunday Echo
offices in Leeson Street,’ she instructed the driver. The tape recorder in her bag felt like an unexploded bomb and Lucinda wanted to get the information
transcribed quickly. She would do it immediately and then . . . later, when she had time to think about it, she would decide what to do with it.

Strangely heavy-hearted and worn out, Lucinda sat back in the taxi and lit a cigarette. To hell with the no-smoking sign; she needed a drag badly.

Forty-Eight

‘Hi, Dad,’ Devlin said cheerfully. It was always a treat when her father phoned.

‘Devlin, could you come home? Lydia’s a bit under the weather.’ Gerry’s voice sounded anxious.