First We Take Manhattan Read online

  First We Take

  Manhattan

  Also by Colette Caddle

  FROM THIS MOMENT ON

  EVERY TIME WE SAY GOODBYE

  ALWAYS ON MY MIND

  THE SECRETS WE KEEP

  BETWEEN THE SHEETS

  IT’S ALL ABOUT HIM

  THE BETRAYAL OF GRACE MULCAHY

  CHANGING PLACES

  RED LETTER DAY

  TOO LITTLE TOO LATE

  SHAKEN AND STIRRED

  A CUT ABOVE

  FOREVER FM

  First published in Ireland by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Colette Caddle 2014

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.

  The right of Colette Caddle to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

  1st Floor

  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  PB ISBN: 978-1-84983-896-2

  EBOOK ISBN: 978-147113-423-4

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Dedication

  Producing a novel each year is a team effort and there are two lovely ladies who are always a part of my team.

  Sheila Crowley is an agent extraordinaire, who is at the end of the phone whenever I need an ear or just want to shoot the breeze.

  Suzanne Baboneau is the perfect editor with that rare talent of editing by osmosis! She makes me think and brings out the best in me in the gentlest possible way and each book is one hundred per cent better as a result of her input.

  So, Sheila, Suzanne, this one is for you with my humble thanks. Next, we take Berlin!

  Acknowledgements

  This book required a little knowledge of the world of fashion and millinery and I knew nothing of either so I turned to Bríd O’Driscoll Millinery in Galway and spent a fascinating and fun-filled morning in her wonderful studio. Thank you for giving me your time and sharing your knowledge, Bríd. Watching you work and seeing my beautiful headpiece take shape before my eyes was a wonderful experience!

  Thanks too to Gwen Owen and Tom Baldwin, who are always there to answer my legal queries, and to Sergeant Tara Sharpe for her advice on missing person cases. Any mistakes are entirely mine!

  My profound gratitude, as always, to the people who get me through each year and each book:

  Suzanne Baboneau, Clare Hey and all the team at Simon & Schuster; my agent, Sheila Crowley, and her very capable and obliging assistant, Rebecca Ritchie; Simon, Declan and Helen of Gill Hess, who do all the leg work in Ireland; the booksellers who, despite difficult times, are always unfailingly generous and supportive

  And my thanks to you, friends, for picking up this book. I hope you enjoy it.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter One

  Sinéad stared into the grey-green eyes of her dead sister and shivered. She’d watched the clip from The Late Late Show so many times, but she still drank in every detail. To the audience, Sheila had probably appeared cool and relaxed. They didn’t know she’d thrown up before the interview and that her high-heeled foot bobbing up and down meant she was as nervous as hell.

  Sinéad pressed pause and studied her own image. In the funky hippie dress she looked younger than her identical twin. Sheila oozed class and sophistication. Sinéad wore an elaborate hairband, her dark auburn hair free around her bare shoulders while Sheila’s was gathered into a neat coil on one side of her neck and covered with a delicate web of netting that matched her dress. Their smiles, laughs and voices were identical, but, while Sinéad’s eyes were wide and open, Sheila’s were more reserved.

  It had always been that way. Sinéad had lived life as if it were a roller coaster. It scared the hell out of her, but she couldn’t resist the thrill. Her big sister – by nine minutes – hung back and observed and spent her life trying to stop Sinéad from rushing headlong into trouble. Most of the time she was successful, but when she wasn’t she’d been there to pick up the pieces.

  Sinéad choked up as she pressed play and the camera zoomed in on Sheila. She had planned on wearing a dreary black tunic that night, but Sinéad had talked her out of it. Black so close to the face didn’t suit either of them: their hair was too dark and complexion too fair. The knee-length royal-blue dress she’d worn instead complemented the rich tones of her hair and creaminess of her skin. It was in no way revealing – that wasn’t Sheila’s style – yet it clung sexily to every single curve.

  ‘You’re stunning,’ Sinéad whispered to the TV screen.

  ‘Cooee, only me!’

  Sinéad groaned. Why had she ever given her neighbours a spare key? Ellen was in and out every day, wearing that anxious expression.

  ‘So this is where you’re hiding—’ Ellen stopped when she saw what Sinéad was watching, put down the coffees and tried to prise the control from her hand. Sinéad clung on to it.

  ‘You’ve watched this a hundred times,’ Ellen complained, flopping down on the sofa beside her.

  Sinéad hushed her. This was the best bit. She turned up the volume as Sheila started to talk.

  ‘This beautiful girl came into the shop just as we were closing and bought two hats and a headpiece, just like that!’

  ‘And you didn’t recognise her?’ The presenter smiled.

  Sheila pulled a face and blushed. ‘I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t.’

  The audience laughed appreciatively.

  ‘Isn’t it incredible?’ Sinéad took up the story. ‘She’s only the most famous actress around and the newspapers have been full of gossip about the filming of her new movie down in Wicklow.’

  ‘When you saw her on the red carpet wearing your . . . What are those things called again?’ He frowned.

  ‘We call them headpieces but they’re
also known as fascinators,’ Sheila told him with a smile.

  The presenter pulled a face at the audience. ‘Sorry, I’m not really up on these things. But she did look stunning.’ An image of the actress, the delicate creation of silk and veiling on her shiny blonde bob, flashed up on the large screen behind him. ‘That must have been an incredible moment, Sinéad, seeing one of your designs on the head of a famous actress at the BAFTAs. Describe for me how you felt.’

  ‘I honestly can’t, it was amazing, I was in shock. I couldn’t believe it.’

  ‘And the best part was that she gave us a really great plug when she was interviewed. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing since,’ Sheila chipped in.

  ‘You must have had some celebration that night!’

  Sheila laughed. ‘We were working flat out on a wedding order so we had pizza and sparkling wine in paper cups and then got back to work!’

  Sinéad scrolled down the menu to the next recording and pressed play.

  Ellen nudged her. ‘I brought coffee.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Shouldn’t you be working?’ She fast-forwarded, wishing Ellen would just leave her to be miserable in peace.

  ‘The search was called off today for the milliner, Sheila Healy, wife of independent politician and member of Dáil Éireann, Philip Healy, who disappeared eight days ago. Her car was found on the coast road in Sandycove. Her mother, Margaret Fields, died twenty years ago when swimming on the family holiday in Kilmucridge. Mr Healy thanked the Gardaí, the services and the volunteers for their efforts to trace his wife and said he is still hopeful that they will find her. He, Sinéad’s father, Kieran Fields, brother, businessman Max Fields, and twin sister and business partner, Sinéad, are being comforted by friends.’

  Ellen wrenched the remote away from Sinéad and switched off the TV. ‘Enough! You’ve got to stop watching this stuff. It’s been nearly a year.’

  ‘Only eight months,’ Sinéad snapped. ‘She disappeared on March the first.’

  ‘But she’s gone, sweetie, and you’re not.’

  Sinéad swallowed back the tears that were never far away. ‘I’m not sure I can go on without her.’

  ‘Course you can.’ Ellen rubbed her back as if she were a child. ‘You’re not alone. You’ve got me and Rory and Max and Dylan and your dad.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Sinéad grunted. Dad had retreated into his own little world. Her brother meant well but he wasn’t the sort that you ever had a heart-to-heart with. Dylan . . . She sighed. Well, her boyfriend had turned out to be a total asshole. He had been sympathetic for the first couple of months after Sheila disappeared but he’d grown tired of her moping around and spent more time out wandering the hills and beaches with his bloody camera than he did with her.

  ‘Yeah, well, you’ve got me and Rory, anyway, and your work. Throw yourself into that – it’s what you love – and blot out everything else. Whenever Rory’s worried about the business, I send him into the kitchen to bake, and within a few hours he’s calmed down.’

  Sinéad pulled away and dragged her sleeve across her eyes. ‘Sheila was the brains of the business. I don’t have a clue to be honest. When I try to sew, my fingers feel clumsy, as if I’m wearing rubber gloves. I can’t even sketch—’ She broke off as the familiar feeling of panic overwhelmed her, and she reached with shaking fingers for her coffee. Caffeine, alcohol and sleeping tablets were all that got her through lately. But, although they numbed the pain, she couldn’t forget.

  ‘You’re trying to do too much too soon. You should hire someone to take care of all the paperwork and sales and concentrate on what you’re good at: making hats. And leave the bloody shop to Karen to run. Where is she, anyway?’

  Sinéad looked at her. ‘Downstairs . . . isn’t she?’

  ‘Nope. Did she come in this morning?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Sinéad admitted. ‘I opened up and came back upstairs to work.’

  ‘She’s a lazy cow. It’s a good job you have to buzz to get in, isn’t it? Call her. I’ll keep an eye on the place till you’re ready to come down. You might want to tidy yourself,’ she added gently. ‘Slap on some makeup, sweetie, it’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘Aren’t you needed next door?’ Sinéad said, thinking she’d much prefer to close up and crawl back into bed. Ellen and her husband Rory ran Café Crème and were good friends, salt of the earth, but sometimes she just wanted to be left alone.

  ‘No, there’ll be a lull until twelve, and it won’t do Rory a bit of harm to manage without me for a while.’

  ‘You two aren’t fighting again, are you?’

  ‘He’s just grumpy because I was out with the girls last night and got back a bit late.’

  Sinéad raised an eyebrow. ‘How late?’

  ‘Around three.’ Ellen grinned.

  ‘No wonder you’re in the doghouse.’

  ‘It’s not like I go out without him often,’ Ellen protested. ‘He should trust me. We’ve been together nine years now. Does he think I’m going to jump on the first man I meet?’

  ‘If the shoe was on the other foot you wouldn’t talk to him for a week,’ Sinéad retorted.

  ‘Two,’ Ellen laughed. She was halfway out of the door but stopped to look back at Sinéad. ‘You know, spending your nights holed up here isn’t going to help. You need to get some proper rest and you need Dylan. Let him mind you, Sinéad, I know he wants to.’

  Sinéad wasn’t sure at all. Dylan had enjoyed being with her when she was fun but he wasn’t as keen now he was faced with her other side. Ellen stood waiting for a response. ‘I just need a little time alone.’

  Ellen nodded in understanding and disappeared downstairs.

  Sinéad forced herself up off the sofa and went into the adjoining room. In the past it had been a storeroom, but after a particularly bad blow-up with Dylan, Sinéad had unearthed an old fold-up bed and started to camp out here. Her clothes were tossed carelessly over the chair in the corner. She wrinkled her nose in disgust – the air was stale with the stench of wine and cigarettes. ‘You’re turning into a pig, Fields,’ she muttered and pulled up the blind. She winced as sunlight flooded the room, making her head pound even harder. She threw open the window and gasped as the cold air hit her. She took a deep breath, hunted for her mobile and called Karen. All she got was the woman’s voicemail. She left a clipped message and tossed the phone onto the bed.

  Turning to the mirror, she saw only too clearly why Ellen had suggested makeup. Her skin was the colour of putty and there were enormous dark circles under her eyes, though she had no idea why, given that all she did was sleep these days. The wonderful little white tablets the doctor had prescribed brought total oblivion, which was infinitely preferable to reality. She patted on some moisturiser and foundation, mascara and a lick of red lipstick before tugging a brush through her thick hair. As long and wavy as Sheila’s, it was currently black, too black for her colouring and so darker foundation was required. The look aged her. She stared into her eyes, frightened by what she saw there. How many people really looked into someone’s eyes? Really looked. They said more than words ever could. They couldn’t lie. If anyone took the time to look properly, they would see a lonely frightened woman. I’m not waving, I’m drowning, she thought and shuddered at the sad irony.

  It would be easier – at least she thought it would – if they talked about Sheila, but her brother and father never mentioned her, and if Sinéad did there was an awkward silence or Max would change the subject. It was driving her insane. They were behaving as if Sheila hadn’t existed. Dad and Aunty Bridie had been the same when Mum had died, but at least back then she’d had Sheila to talk to.

  Sinéad went back to the window and stared out to sea. She couldn’t accept that Sheila was dead, or, if she was, that it had been suicide. This thought led her, as always, to wonder about Philip. Her supposedly devastated brother-in-law seemed to be getting on just fine.

  ‘What do you expect?’ Dylan had said, looking exasperated. Philip had p
opped up on the evening news complaining about a social-housing scheme the government had reneged on and she’d made a snide comment about how you would never think he was a widower. ‘Not everyone wears their heart on their sleeve. The man has a job to do and he’s trying to do it. You could take a leaf out of his book.’

  His words had stung. How could he talk to her like that? How could he be so cruel and hard? Dylan didn’t understand her, but then no one did. Sinéad didn’t have the courage to leave him, but neither could she forgive him. And so she had taken refuge in the shop, either sleeping on the narrow bed or conking out in front of the TV after too much wine.

  She heard Ellen moving around below and realised that she was keeping the woman from her own work. She turned back to the mirror, smoothed down her black dress and fastened a wide red belt around her waist. After tying her long hair back with a matching silk ribbon, she added large silver hoop earrings and hurried downstairs.

  ‘Much better.’ Ellen beamed with approval when she saw her. ‘Now you look like a successful designer.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘Did you call Karen?’

  ‘I just got her voicemail.’

  ‘Get rid of her,’ Ellen said, heading for the door.

  ‘How would I manage alone?’ Sinéad retorted.

  ‘Darling, there will be kids just out of college queuing up to work for you. Hell, they’d probably do it for nothing just so they could add your name to their CV. Get onto an agency and give that bitch the push.’

  ‘Maybe. I’ll talk to Max about it.’

  ‘Good girl. I’d better go before I’m divorced.’

  ‘Thanks, Ellen.’

  ‘Any time, sweetheart.’

  Left alone, Sinéad half-heartedly tidied the shop, rearranged the window display and then, perching on the stool behind the counter, started to sew a trim onto a hat. Thanks to some painkillers and the coffee, her headache had settled down to a dull throbbing. The phone rang every so often, but she let the machine pick up the calls. They would mainly be queries or complaints and she just couldn’t deal with that right now. She would check them later.