City Lives (10 page)

Nicola stared back unabashed. ‘Some things aren’t worth the effort,’ she drawled.

Was he mistaken or was there contempt in those green eyes?

‘Can I get you a cake or biscuits with the coffee? Did you have breakfast?’ He changed direction rapidly.

‘Oh ya, I’ve done an hour’s workout in City Girl earlier. I ate breakfast there.’

‘Oh! My wife’s best friend owns City Girl,’ Terry boasted.

‘Ya?’ Nicola arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘That’s Devlin Delaney, isn’t it? I admire her. Does your wife work out there?’

Idiot
. Terry cursed himself. What kind of a fool was he at all to bring Maggie into the conversation.

‘Sometimes. She’s very busy these days.’

‘Ya, she’s a writer isn’t she? And successful too. I must confess I don’t read much popular fiction so I haven’t read any of hers. I prefer more meaty stuff.
I’ve just finished John Banville’s
The Book of Evidence
. An excellent book. Now I’m into Annie Proulx,
The Shipping News
. Have you read it? I find Quoyle a
fascinating character.’

‘Haven’t read it myself, I don’t get much time. I did enjoy Roddy Doyle’s Booker Prizewinner,’ he spoofed. For the life of him he couldn’t remember the name
of the book. He just knew Roddy Doyle had won the Booker Prize. Terry hadn’t read a book since he’d left school, he was far too busy. But he had to save face.

‘Now that Maggie’s up to her eyes I try and spend as much time as I can with the kids so that they don’t feel too neglected.’ Terry gave a poor-me sigh. ‘If it
wasn’t for the fact that I’m playing a round with my client I wouldn’t have come today. I would have gone swimming with them.’

‘That’s very nice, Terry. And rare. Believe me, I work with men who are so ambitious and so driven their kids never get a look-in,’ Nicola replied.

‘Look, I’ll go get the coffee. And a cake?’

‘Why not.’

Five minutes later they sipped their coffee and Terry watched as Nicola licked the sticky icing of her coffee slice from her fingers. He was having such dirty thoughts if he wasn’t careful
he’d get a hard-on.

‘Do you have children yourself?’ he ventured, crossing his legs.

‘No . . . I made a conscious decision that I wanted to be successful in my career. Marriage and children would only hold me back.’

‘Don’t you find it lonely?’ Terry asked curiously.

‘Not really. I was in a relationship for seven years but he just couldn’t cope with the fact that I became more successful than he was. I was earning more than him in the end. He
couldn’t hack that at all. He was a bit of a prat like that really.’ Nicola took a sip of coffee, crossed her legs, sat back and studied Terry coolly.

I bet you liked to rub his nose in it too
, Terry thought but he just said smoothly, ‘He doesn’t sound as if he was too secure in himself.’

‘Correct,’ drawled his companion. ‘Are you secure in yourself, Terry?’

He laughed. This was ridiculous.

‘Is anyone really secure in themselves? There’s always a need or a want to be fulfilled. I’d like to say that I was, but that would be bull. I need to be as successful as the
next man.’
And I need to know I can still pull a bird
, he admitted silently, knowing deep down that he wasn’t secure at all. And knowing that if he was living with a
ball-breaker like Nicola Cassidy he’d have left too, even if she
had
legs that went up to her armpits.

He drained his cup and stood up. ‘Nice having coffee with you, but please excuse me. I want to keep an eye out for my client, he hasn’t played at this club before. See you, Nicola.
Enjoy your round.’

‘Bye, Terry. Enjoy yours.’ Nicola smiled at him but her tone was dry and he had the strangest sense that she was laughing at him. He made his way to the front door and stood outside,
glad to breathe in the crisp autumnal air after the cloying scent of her perfume.

Women! They weren’t worth it, he thought irritably. Just who did she think she was? All that bullshitting about being secure. And letting him know that she looked down her nose at
Maggie’s sort of book. Sure wasn’t one book the same as another? He scowled. Maybe men-only golf clubs were a good idea, at least the members wouldn’t have to listen to that sort
of pretentious crap from the likes of Nicola Cassidy. She wasn’t that fantastic, now that he thought of it. She had thin lips.

Terry was as mad as hell, and he wasn’t sure why. But the interlude with Nicola had left him agitated. It was as if
she
had been in control of the whole thing, not him. Anyway he
wouldn’t waste his time flirting with her again. She wasn’t his type after all, he decided as he composed his face into a smile of welcome to greet John Dolan, who had just driven up in
a brand-new Jag.

Nicola Cassidy watched Terry make his way out of the coffee dock and smirked to herself. What did he think she was? Some sort of a blonde
bimbo
? She knew an attempted pick-up when she
saw one. He’d been sniffing around her for weeks. Did he think that she was just going to fall into his arms because he’d bought her a cup of coffee? Because he was a successful broker
who entertained his clients to a round of golf? Was she supposed to be
impressed
? She’d dealt with too many Terry Ryans on her hard slog up the ladder to be impressed with his type.
What was it with these guys that they couldn’t handle a successful woman? And his childish innuendoes weren’t worthy of a schoolboy.
I bet you could handle anything
. His best
was probably pathetic.

I bet I could beat him at golf too, she thought dismissively as she sat back in her seat and ordered another cup of coffee.

Three hours later Terry and John Dolan sat in the bar having a drink before they headed off for lunch. Terry had let the older man win the game. He needed his business.

‘See the blonde bird coming towards the clubhouse?’ He pointed Nicola out as she strode across the links. ‘She has a thing for me. We had coffee this morning and if I pushed it
I could get places. What do you think?’

‘Great ass,’ his companion said appreciatively. ‘Are you going to go for it?’

‘Maybe.’ Terry shrugged. But as he watched Nicola undulating into the clubhouse he knew one thing was for sure. He was pissed off at home. He was pissed off with Maggie, and from now
on it was open season with women. He only had one life. He was going to live it and have some fun living it. He’d have his affairs, only this time he’d make damn sure not to get
caught.

‘I thought you’d be down much earlier than this, Maggie,’ Nelsie said crossly as Maggie stepped out of the car.

‘Mam, I told you I’d be a bit late because of the swimming,’ Maggie explained patiently as she opened the car door for the children. ‘How’s Dad?’

‘Ach, he’s whinging and moaning in there. You think it was my fault he had gout. Honest to God, Maggie, but he’s a terrible patient. Did you bring the sponges for me?
I’ll take them with me for our tea break.’

‘I have them here.’ Maggie handed her the Superquinn bakery bag.

Nelsie took them from her with satisfaction. Never a word of thanks or a ‘I hope I didn’t put you to any trouble’, Maggie thought resentfully.

‘Hello, Mimi. Hello Michael. And how’s my little angel?’ Nelsie turned her attention to her grandchildren.

‘Hi, Gran, can we collect the eggs?’

‘Gran can we have brown bread and sugar?’

‘Gran can I make lavender perfume like I did the last time?’

Nelsie laughed at the barrage of questions.

‘Michael, say can I have brown bread and sugar,
please
. Shona, can I collect eggs,
please
. Mimi, can I make lavender perfume,
please
.’ Maggie reproved.

‘
Please
, Gran,’ they chorused impatiently.

‘Of course you can. Come on now, because I have to be getting along. Come in and say hello to Grandad. He’s looking forward to seeing you.’ Nelsie led the way into the
farmhouse.

She was looking well, Maggie reflected as she followed her mother. Small and wiry, Nelsie McNamara was blessed with abundant energy. In her late sixties, she often left Maggie feeling totally
inadequate as she buzzed around attending to the farm, taking part in all the parish activities and always with several projects on the go, such as quilting, crochet or a piece of embroidery,
perfectly stitched. She played cards two nights a week and Maggie often thought in amusement that her mother had a better social life than she had. Today she was wearing her best dress. A lovely
wine and green Paisley print with a V-neck to show off her treasured amethyst pendant, a gift from her husband on their wedding day. She wore a wine-coloured cardigan to keep out the autumnal
chill. She looked extremely smart and Maggie, despite her earlier irritation, felt a surge of pride for her mother.

‘You look great, Mam!’ she said as Nelsie ushered the children into the house in front of her.

‘Well thank you, Maggie. I try and look my best for these occasions and thank God I’m in the full of my health,’ Nelsie responded cheerfully. ‘You look a little peaky
yourself.’

‘Ah, I’m a bit tired. I’m trying to get a book finished and it’s hard going.’

‘Would you not give it up until the children are a bit older,’ her mother urged as they walked into the kitchen.

‘We’ll see,’ Maggie murmured noncommittally. Her father was sitting beside the fire in his armchair, one foot resting on a small pouffe.

‘Hello, Dad.’ She leaned down and kissed her father’s cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’

‘Hello, Maggs, I’m browned off to be honest with you. This old dose has me rightly stuck.’ Behind him, Nelsie threw her eyes up to heaven as she took the sponges out of the
supermarket bags and placed them in two cake tins to bring with her.

‘Hi, Grandad,’ Shona threw herself into his arms. ‘Will we look for eggs?’

‘I can’t unfortunately, pet, Mammy will have to go looking with you today.’

‘Aw Grandad, that’s not the same.’ Shona made a face.

‘Thanks!’ Maggie said dryly.

‘Ah, Mammy . . . it’s just that Grandad does great adventures,’ Shona explained earnestly. ‘I like going with you too.’

‘I know,’ Maggie soothed, understanding Shona’s disappointment. Her father doted on his grandchildren and went out of his way to entertain them when they came to visit.
Harrison Ford’s search for the Holy Grail paled into insignificance compared to Grandad McNamara’s and his trusted assistants’ search for the speckled and brown eggs of the seven
hens.

‘Get the egg basket in the scullery and start looking in the hen shed and I’ll be out soon,’ Maggie instructed as she took off her jacket. The children needed no second
urging.

‘Maggie, I’ve cooked a big pot of beef and kidney stew, just heat it up. There’s a rice pudding ready to go in the oven and there’s home-made blackberry and apple tart.
If your father had been able to put weight on his foot he’d have been grand, but he can’t and that’s why I had to call on you. But I have it all ready for you, so you won’t
have to do too much.’ Nelsie stood at the mirror in the hall, gave her hair a final brush, and retouched her lipstick.

‘I’d have got it all ready, Mam. You didn’t have to go to such trouble,’ Maggie protested. She felt a bit of a heel for making such a fuss about coming down.

‘No trouble. I did it while I was waiting for you to arrive. It was better than twiddling my thumbs all morning,’ Nelsie responded tartly.

‘I did have to bring the children swimming,’ Maggie pointed out defensively.

‘I’m sure missing it once in a blue moon wouldn’t be a tragedy.’ Nelsie sniffed. ‘Anyway, you’re here now and I’m off. I’ll be home around seven,
if that’s all right with you.’

‘Seven’s fine,’ Maggie said irritably but her acerbity was wasted on her mother, who was putting on her good tweed coat and jaunty green beret.

‘There’s a quiche in the fridge for tea,’ she called out and then she was gone, her small sprightly figure hurrying across the gravel to the car with her two cake tins swinging
in a string bag.

‘You’ve no business being late on fête day,’ Harry McNamara said drolly from his chair beside the fire, ‘swimming or no.’

Maggie laughed. ‘Mother’s something else.’

‘Mind, you haven’t been down in a while, you’d think you lived at the other end of the country instead of an hour’s drive away,’ her father remonstrated.
‘Stick the kettle on there and make us a cup of tea, like a good girl.’ He settled himself more comfortably in his chair and picked up the paper.

Silently Maggie went to the sink and filled the kettle. What did her parents think, that she lolled around every morning painting her nails? She had three children of school age, a husband who
did not pull his weight and a career that would be rapidly going down the tubes now that her editor was leaving.

No-one understood the pressure she was under. Was her mother right? Should she leave aside her writing career until her children were older? What had started out as a joy and a release was
rapidly becoming a burden. The pressure of a deadline was intense. But she knew better than anyone how important it was to build up her name as a writer. Her first two novels had sold well, maybe
her third,
Betrayal
, would be her breakthrough. If she could just have some money at her back to become more independent of Terry it would be worth the slog. It was good having her own
money. Her royalty cheques were on the rise. She was due one any day now. That would lift her spirits, she comforted herself as she waited for the kettle to boil.

She glanced around the homely farmhouse kitchen with its great pine dresser full of crockery, nestled in the alcove beside the fire. The big square pine table and chairs had been there in the
centre of the room since she’d been a child. The fireplace, with its gleaming brass fender, had two small red-cushioned seats at either side of the chimney-breast. Her parents’
armchairs stood at either side of the fire, old and worn but more comfortable than the grandest suite. The perfect place to curl up for a snooze.

On Sundays Nelsie lit the fire in the front parlour, but, apart from Sundays, life was mostly lived in the snug, warm, aroma-filled kitchen that had hardly changed from her childhood.