City Woman (25 page)

‘Now Maggie—’ Her editor interrupted her musings. ‘—here’s a pad and paper. I know you haven’t your copy of the manuscript, so we’ll use mine and,
by the way, I love the new title.’ Marcy tapped a pen approvingly on the title page, and Maggie hid a smile. Her editor was so authoritative. Maggie knew full well that if she hadn’t
liked the new title she would have made her protests loud and clear. Because Maggie knew nothing about publishing she felt at a disadvantage sometimes in discussions with her publishers but she had
decided if she felt really strongly about something she was going to stick to her guns. It was good that Marcy liked the title but even if she hadn’t, Maggie wouldn’t have changed it.
‘I just want to make some general comments first and then get you organized for the rewriting.’ Marcy sat back in her chair, her bright intelligent blue eyes staring at Maggie
reflectively. ‘Just as an aside, Maggie, I suggest, indeed I believe it vital that you get yourself a word processor. Apart from the fact that it’s very expensive having work typed,
it’s much easier to edit on screen and we do all our work on disk now. The typewritten manuscript is obsolete in this technological age, I’m afraid. So definitely for your next novel
you should invest in a word processor.’

‘I wouldn’t have a clue how to use one,’ Maggie said in dismay.

‘Of course you would, you’re an intelligent woman; there’s nothing to it,’ Marcy said bracingly and Maggie felt like a ten-year-old. ‘Now at all times while
we’re editing, remember that I am on your side and my criticisms are for your own good and the good of your novel. I know first-time authors often find it difficult to listen to someone
pointing out errors and flaws but if you keep a positive attitude you will learn a lot, Maggie, and life will be much simpler when you are writing your next novel.’ Marcy was sweetly patient.
As she gave her discovery a summary of the improvements necessary in her novel, Maggie tried not to cringe inwardly. Maybe she shouldn’t have bothered submitting her novel for publication.
Maybe it just wasn’t up to scratch if all these adjustments had to be made.

‘We need more verisimilitude,’ Marcy was saying.

Holy Divinity, thought Maggie in dismay. What on earth was verisimilitude?

‘More true to life,’ Marcy explained, seeing her puzzlement.

Maggie nodded as she assimilated what she later realized was to be some of the best advice she would ever receive in her writing career. This woman, with her brisk businesslike way, was good at
her job, Maggie had to admit. Everything she had said was absolutely spot on, even though it had been difficult to take it on the chin. ‘Thanks, Marcy,’ Maggie said calmly. ‘That
will give me a lot to chew on. It’s very helpful stuff.’ Now that she had got over the shock of having her flaws pointed out, she was beginning to be enthusiastic about things
again.

‘Well, I think you’ve enough to be going on with for now if you do the work I’ve marked up for next week. We’ll carry on from there.’

‘Sure, I’ll be in touch.’ Maggie gathered up her notes. It was like getting her homework marked, she thought in amusement.

‘When we’ve gone through the script we’ll have lunch. I like to bring my authors to lunch every so often. It’s nice to get to know the person behind the writer,’
Marcy remarked as she stood up and straightened her skirt. ‘Maggie, you must excuse me now. I’ve to attend an in-house meeting, but keep in touch if you’ve any difficulties.
I’m always here.’ She added gently, ‘I hope Shona will be well soon.’ With that, she was striding out the door, a file under her arm, and Maggie knew that she was instantly
forgotten. Marcy’s racing brain was already dealing with the next item on her agenda.

Driving back to Temple Street, Maggie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How she was going to manage to sit down to rewrite with Shona still in hospital, and two other children at home
– and a husband who was in a huff with her. Marcy, being childless, obviously had no conception of the difficulties Maggie was having to contend with.

For the first time Maggie realized that her writing was no longer a hobby. This was business. It was like having a job again. Now that she had signed a contract she was going to have to produce
the goods and within the time required. She was a working mother now, although she had always thought that was a silly term since all mothers worked. She was just going to have to cope, like
millions of other women who juggled motherhood and careers. At the moment it was a thought that gave rise to some apprehension. Writing was such a solitary occupation and how could she, the mother
of three small children, ever hope to get the time she needed to write. But in spite of herself she felt exhilarated. I’ll manage somehow, she assured herself. As she sat waiting for the red
lights at Whitehall Garda station to change, she was already planning the decor of the apartment of her heroine, as per Marcy’s instructions.

‘Please, God, let Shona be feeling better when I get back,’ she beseeched the Almighty. But for Caroline stepping in to take care of Michael and Mimi, she would have been in a hell
of a pickle, because her next-door neighbour who was good at helping out in a fix was in Corfu for a fortnight’s holiday. Maggie parked the car in the car-park where Eccles Street College had
once stood. She could still see the markings of basketball and tennis-courts where the schoolyard had been. It had started to drizzle and she had to sprint the rest of the way so she wouldn’t
get too wet.

She was puffed when she reached the hospital. No doubt it wouldn’t have knocked a feather out of superfit Marcy. In the distance she could hear the rumble of thunder. It was so heavy and
muggy, maybe a good thunderstorm would clear the air. Hot and thirsty, she walked down to the canteen and bought a can of Coke and a sandwich. She held the ice-cold can against the side of her neck
as she walked up the several flights of stairs to the ward. It was refreshing. She’d love a swim right now, she thought longingly. Devlin was sponging Shona down when she went in. ‘Her
temperature’s climbed back to 103, Maggie. I’m sorry,’ her friend said ruefully.

‘Shit!’ cursed Maggie in frustration.

‘Oh and ah . . . well, Terry called in. He was going to a meeting across town. He was wondering where you were. I didn’t say anything about your meeting or anything. I just said I
was giving you a break for an hour. He’ll be back at teatime,’ Devlin murmured diplomatically.

‘Thanks, Dev,’ Maggie said heavily, as she took the sponge from her.

‘Aren’t you going to tell him about the book?’

‘I don’t know what to do, Dev. If I tell him I was at a meeting with an editor today, he’ll freak and say I’m neglecting Shona. I can’t keep it a secret much
longer. I’ve a lot of rewriting to do in a very short space of time.’ She grimaced. ‘Ah to hell, I suppose I’ll have to tell him one way or another. Tonight is as good a
time as any.’

Twenty-One

‘You’re not serious!’ Terry gazed at his wife as they sat in the dingy hospital canteen having a cup of coffee and a sandwich. Shona was asleep and they had
slipped away for a little while before Maggie went home to shower and change her clothes and put the twins to bed.

‘I am,’ Maggie grinned, enjoying the look of stupefaction on her husband’s face.

‘You’re having a book published? Well, fair dues to you, Maggie, and all the time I thought you were wasting your time sitting at that typewriter. What’s it about?’ Terry
asked.

Pleasantly surprised at his attitude, Maggie was just about to bubble enthusiastically that it was about a woman whose husband has an affair while working in Saudi, when discretion stopped her
tongue. No point in antagonizing her husband by reminding him about his past. He’d never read it anyway. Terry wouldn’t read a book to save his life.

‘Ah, it’s just about three women,’ she said offhandedly.

‘When will the money start rolling in?’

Maggie laughed. ‘It’s started already. I got a cheque for the first instalment of my advance last Friday before I went away.’

‘For how much?’ Terry was flabbergasted.

‘Two thousand five hundred,’ Maggie said airily.

‘Good God, that would pay off the loan on your car.’ Terry rubbed his hands as a broad grin creased his handsome face.

‘Well yes, maybe I could pay fifteen hundred off it but I need to keep a bit. I have to do some rewriting and I was thinking that, when Shona gets out of hospital and the lads are finished
summer school, I might rent out a mobile in Redcross for a month. It will be good for them and I can concentrate on my novel at night when they’re in bed.’

‘Why don’t you stay at your Ma’s and save yourself the expense of a mobile? They aren’t cheap to rent at the height of the season. It seems like an awful waste of money
to me, especially when your parents have the big farmhouse and loads of room,’ Terry argued.

‘No, Terry!’ Maggie was adamant. ‘I never have a bit of peace when I’m at home with the children. Ma gets into too much of a tizzy, and starts going on about the way she
did things when we were small and I end up simmering with frustration and anger with a touch of inadequacy thrown in. I’m always afraid they’ll break something and I spend my time
telling them not to do this and to be careful of that. It’s just not worth it. If I rent a mobile we’ll be able to visit a couple of times and that will suit me fine.’

‘OK, OK, keep your hair on,’ Terry growled. ‘How long more do you think Shona’s going to be in here? Are they doing anything with her at all? I think I’ll get on to
them. There’s no improvement.’

‘They’re doing their best, Terry. The professor told me if there’s no improvement by tomorrow he’s going to put her on Erythromycin. It’s a superstrong antibiotic;
the only thing about it is that it sometimes makes children sick.’

‘That’s not much use then, is it?’

‘If it takes her temperature down and clears the chest infection it will be worth it.’

Maggie placed the dirty cups and plates on her tray and stood up. ‘I’m off. I’ll see you later. Caroline cooked a lasagne so you can bake a potato in the microwave and have
that with it when you get home.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to fend for myself, when you’re enjoying yourself on your month’s holiday,’ he moaned.

‘I won’t be on holidays, Terry,’ Maggie retorted. ‘I’ll be working. I’ll be looking after three children, cooking for them, washing their clothes,
entertaining them. On top of that I’ll be trying to concentrate on my rewrites. If you’d like to swop places with me and go down to the mobile for a month and let me stay at home in
peace and quiet to get my work done, you’re more than welcome.’

‘Aw, come off it, Mags,’ Terry scoffed. ‘You’re not going to stand there and tell me that sitting at a typewriter writing whatever comes into your head is hard
work?’

It’s as hard as sitting at a calculator working out a tax return, she thought, and was sorely tempted to tell him so, but she restrained herself. There was no point in getting upset by her
husband’s attitude. She remembered something she had heard at one of the sessions in the writers’ group of which she was a member. A writer who had achieved great success had told them
how annoyed he had been when one day after he had become a full-time writer, a close friend said, ‘Tell me what’s it like not to have to work any more?’ The writer had been so
angry he had snapped, ‘What are you asking me for? I don’t know. I work bloody hard.’ Only a writer could understand how hard it is, he had told the class. ‘So,’ he
said, ‘don’t let people’s attitudes upset you. Just keep writing.’

In a million years Terry would never understand. Adam would, but not her husband. Nevertheless, even if he didn’t understand, Terry should be much more supportive of her. It was this lack
of support that riled Maggie so much. It didn’t matter whether her interest was writing or painting, he should be behind her every step of the way – just as once she would have been his
greatest champion. No matter how much she kidded herself, Maggie knew that ever since his affair with Ria Kirby their marriage was a continuing disappointment to her. She found herself constantly
comparing their relationship with that of other couples, and it didn’t compare well with a lot of them. Even Caroline and Richard were more content than she was.

‘You’re a gas woman, Maggie.’ Her husband was smiling and Maggie realized sadly that Terry didn’t even realize he had hurt her feelings.

She kept her tone light. ‘I must be to have married you!’

‘Oh, you didn’t do badly for yourself,’ Terry said, grinning. He leaned over and gave her a kiss and a pat on the behind. ‘God, you’ve a great ass, Maggie. I wish
this was all over. I’m as horny as hell and I miss you in bed at night.’

‘Stop it, Terry! People are looking at us!’ Maggie extricated herself from his embrace.

‘Let ’em look! A man can kiss his wife, can’t he, especially when she’s as good-looking as you!’ Terry was unabashed.

In spite of herself Maggie had to laugh. In mind and heart her husband was still sixteen years old.

‘I’m going. I’ll collect the car from the garage. Caroline said she’d wait until you got home, so I can come back sooner. Maybe we could nip off somewhere for a court and
a bit of nookey,’ Terry whispered hopefully. ‘It’s been ages, Maggie.’

‘Give over,’ she said indignantly. ‘It was last Friday morning before I went away.’

‘That’s ages,’ he exclaimed.

‘Ever ready! That’s you.’ Maggie grabbed the tray and followed the notice that directed them to the kitchen where people were requested to help by leaving out their dirty
crockery to be washed – the staff shortages were that bad.

‘I’d want to be to make the most of the rare occasion when you’re in the mood,’ Terry muttered.

‘That’s not fair, Terry Ryan,’ Maggie exploded. ‘Christ Almighty, as if I haven’t enough on my plate at the moment! You’re totally fucking
insensitive.’

‘Sure, I’m as knackered as you are. I’m looking after the kids and getting them up and dressed in the morning, as well as doing my stint in here. Besides which I’ve got a
day’s work to do. It’s no joy-ride for me either, Maggie.’