Best of Friends (9 page)

“Hello, Lizzie,” said Sally, wearily pulling one reluctant small boy after her by the sleeve of his anorak. His younger brother was clinging miserably to his mother’s neck and looking hatefully at Lizzie. “Tonsillitis again. They were both a little off form this morning, but now Daniel’s started vomiting.”

From his vantage point in Sally’s arms, Daniel stuck out his tongue to prove how sick he was, obviously used to doing it so people could look at his tonsils.

“Poor Daniel,” soothed Lizzie. “Have you got a sore throat?”

He nodded tearfully, big brown eyes looking like a doleful puppy’s.

“And are you sick too, Jack?” Lizzie asked his brother.

“Yes,” said Jack croakily, looking just as miserable.

They were both big children, too big for the petite Sally to carry anymore, Lizzie thought. She looked exhausted.

From behind the reception desk, Lizzie produced the box of kids’ toys she’d tidied up earlier. Jack wasn’t too ill to fall happily onto the colourful jungle train, and was soon banging each animal, making it wail, roar or chatter. Daniel, however, clung to his mother and refused to be put down.

“The wait won’t be long, Sally,” Lizzie reassured her.

“I feel terrible. I should have brought them first thing.” Sally’s face was creased with guilt. “I thought I’d stay home from work and see how they got on, and then Daniel began to be sick and every time I changed him, he’d be sick again, so it’s taken us an hour and a half to leave the house. And Steve’s in bits because work is a nightmare since his boss left last month, and he’s got to do everything.” She looked so wretched, with her normally glossy dark hair tied back into a limp knot, and her grey fleece stained with dried sick on one shoulder. Lizzie decided emergency measures were called for.

“You need a cup of tea,” she said, hurrying to boil the kettle.

Then she produced the ultimate bribe of chocolate buttons, and Daniel grudgingly got onto the floor with Jack to play jungle train.

“They’re soft, so they won’t hurt your throats,” she said, dividing the chocolate between the two boys. Then she gave Sally a big mug of tea and an oatmeal biscuit.

“It’s my medicine.” She smiled, sitting down beside Sally.

“You’re so kind, Lizzie. I suspect that’s why people tell you things,” Sally said, gratefully drinking the tea.

“They tell you things too,” Lizzie pointed out. “The salon’s like a confessional, with people revealing all sorts of stuff to you as they lie back being pampered.”

A faint grin touched Sally’s wan cheeks. “I think I’m too distracted this week to have anyone want to tell me their secrets,” she said. “I’m worried about the boys and their tonsils, and I’m worried about poor Steve. He’s working himself into the ground. I ought to make an appointment for myself too,” she added. “I’ve been feeling a bit run down lately. Nothing out of the ordinary,” she went on, “just I’m a bit weary. Mind you, isn’t everyone?”

“It’s good to hear you worrying a bit about yourself,” Lizzie soothed, checking the appointment book. “You do too much, Sally. Running the salon, talking care of the boys and Steve…”

Sally laughed. “I don’t do too much,” she said. “I don’t do half enough. You want to see the pile of ironing…”

“You never stop,” Lizzie said firmly.

“Don’t bother getting me an appointment yet, Lizzie,” Sally replied. “I’ll phone you for one when I’ve got time. Ruby’s away so the salon is madly busy, and Delia, Steve’s mother, is off on holiday soon, so she won’t be able to look after the boys, so I’ll be running round like a headless chicken for a few weeks. I’ll come and see the doctor after that.”

“You have to look after your health,” Lizzie said, waggling a finger in mock disapproval.

“I promise I’ll phone you when everything calms down,” Sally said.

The door to the doctor’s room opened and the last patient emerged with Dr. Morgan close behind.

Lizzie got up to see the patient out, and Clare Morgan led an eager Jack into her office.

“Thanks, Lizzie, you’re a star,” whispered Sally as she got up to follow with Daniel.

On Thursday, Lizzie had a day off and Gwen arrived to take her shopping. They were not looking for clothes for Lizzie, who had al-ready bought her wedding outfit—a lemon suit, which was the subject of much worry. She went to the spare-room wardrobe and looked at it every few weeks, hoping that the yellow colour wasn’t quite as sharp and hard as she remembered. It had looked fine in the shop during the heady days of the previous year’s August sales, when the thought of getting a bargain had outweighed all other considerations. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

“Could I sell it in the small ads?” she asked Gwen idly. “‘Mother-of-the-bride outfit. Never worn. Makes MOTB look like before picture in makeover article.’”

“You wouldn’t get the proper value of it,” advised Gwen. “Sure, just plaster more make-up on for the wedding and you’ll be fine.” Today’s trip was to buy clothes for Gwen and Shay’s cruise. Ten days on the
Star of the Mediterranean
in April would require lots of outfits, and Gwen, who wasn’t usually even vaguely interested in what she wore, had entered into the whole cruising notion with great vim and vigour. She’d been scouring the local boutiques for nautical outfits, and had gone so far as to make a list of suitable evening clothes from her own wardrobe so that she could be sure of not doubling up on anything.

Lizzie thought this was unlikely. Gwen’s life had not lent itself to cocktail gowns. A passionate knitter, she was far more likely to be remembered for her selection of stone-coloured sweaters that could keep out even an Arctic chill. Unlike Lizzie, who could never resist colourful tops and flowing, gypsy skirts, Gwen preferred sensible outfits. Even her hair was sensible: cut short without any artifice covering the grey.

“Shay’s giving out yards about having to buy a dinner jacket,” said Gwen when they were both settled in her car and driving at a sedate pace down Lizzie’s street. “I told him to shut his trap and stop whingeing. I said you’d come with me if he didn’t. That shut him up.”

Lizzie grinned. Gwen and Shay had already warmly invited her to go with them, saying she hadn’t had a holiday for years and she’d be welcome.

“You don’t want me along,” Lizzie insisted. “You’ve both been saving for this for years and it’s special.” She didn’t add that as well as being completely broke she hated to feel like the third wheel, and even Gwen and Shay, who hardly qualified for love’s young dream and who bickered amiably twenty-four hours a day, could do with-out a gooseberry. The world seemed very coupley these days and Lizzie felt like a gooseberry a lot of the time.

“Did I tell you about the jumper I got in Marks?” Gwen continued. “Pale blue ribbed cotton. The girl at the till said it was very Ralph Lauren, whoever he is when he’s at home. I told her I was going on a cruise. She was dead jealous, I can tell you. Everyone is jealous!”

In the shopping centre, Gwen headed straight for the sort of glossy clothes shop she’d never stepped into before in her life. She bypassed sensible coats and tweedy skirts for the shimmering evening wear. Within minutes, she was wearing royal-blue floorlength jersey that clung to her ample curves with the shop’s three sales assistants standing around discussing how much the skirt needed to be taken up.

“I’m going on a cruise, you see,” Gwen informed them all gravely. “This needs to be perfect.”

It took ten minutes and lots of humming and hawing to get it perfect.

“It mustn’t be too long or you won’t be able to tango,” Lizzie said, her face serious.

The three assistants’ eyes widened.

“She’s a marvellous dancer,” Lizzie added. “And as for her husband…”

The blue jersey column began to shake with laughter. Shay had last danced at his own wedding and had refused to put a toe on any dance floor ever since.

“Don’t mind my sister,” Gwen warned. “She’s a menace. Tango indeed. Who was in that
Last Tango
film? Burt Reynolds, wasn’t it? And there was some furor about margarine, was it? How can a bit of margarine have caused so much fuss? I don’t know. Although it’s hard getting grease marks out of clothes…”

Lizzie kept her head down.

By the time they left, the sales assistants and Gwen had decided that the royal blue would be perfect for the captain’s dinner, and that the silvery grey scarf would look great with the long black skirt and pale blue crepe blouse.

“Imagine me at the captain’s dinner,” sighed Gwen. “Who’d have thought Shay and me would ever be on a cruise?”

“You’ll be the star of the ship,” Lizzie said fondly, linking her arm through her sister’s. “That royal blue will be gorgeous, just perfect.” And then she stopped. She and Myles had never been on a cruise. Now they never would together… Gwen was the one sailing into uncharted waters, the one who’d know all about tipping the staff on the ship and what the midnight buffet was like. Lizzie was left in the shadows.

“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Lizzie said, rallying. “I want a detailed account of everything, from how big the cabin is to what the style is like at night.”

“You could have come, you know,” Gwen said again.

“Nonsense,” said Lizzie briskly. “Haven’t I so much to do here? Debra’s wedding is only round the corner and the organisation takes up so much time.”

Gwen, who had two sons and had managed to get them married without any fuss from either side, held her tongue about what she privately thought about Debra. The truth, Gwen knew, was that Lizzie couldn’t afford to go on a cruise with her daughter’s extravagant demands to pay for.

A cup of coffee revived them both and Lizzie began to relate the latest tale of the wedding.

“I haven’t spoken to Myles about the extra cost but know he won’t mind,” Lizzie finished. “We both want this to be perfect for Debra and if a different bridesmaid’s dress makes it perfect, then so be it.”

Gwen regarded her younger sister solemnly. Their mother had been a great woman for what she called “plain speaking.”

“Blunt as hell,” Lizzie and Gwen used to agree. Both had made conscious efforts to live their lives without resorting to such bluntness. In Lizzie’s case, this had translated into a gentleness with other people and a sharp sense of intuition, although this was strangely lacking when it came to her own immediate family, her sister fondly thought.

While Gwen knew herself to be straightforward, she always made an effort not to hurt anyone with her remarks. But today, watching good, kind Lizzie making a fool out of herself with that spoiled brat of a daughter of hers, Gwen itched to speak plainly.

“I hate to see you both spend so much money on this wedding,” she said, trying to be delicate.

“If you can’t spend money on your only daughter’s wedding, then what can you spend it on?” said Lizzie easily.

“But, Lizzie—” Gwen broke off, not wanting to give a speech along the lines of her mother’s: if Debra was a decent kid, she’d understand that her parents didn’t have much cash to spare and would tailor her plans accordingly. Did Debra have any idea how much penny-pinching had gone on to give her this big, glitzy wedding?

“I’d love Debra to have a big day too,” said Gwen, trying her best to find some middle line without being too critical. “But money does come into it, Lizzie, and maybe you should tell Debra that you can’t afford to spend quite so much…”

“Stop worrying,” replied Lizzie equably. “Course we can afford it. Debra deserves her big day.”

That was what was wrong with her sister, Gwen thought. Lizzie had so much time for other people that she neglected herself. She hadn’t even noticed what was happening in her own marriage. Now, she poured her energy into the kids or, more realistically, Debra, since Joe was away and, anyhow, didn’t need looking after. There was nothing else in her life.

“Why don’t you come with us on the cruise?” Gwen said urgently. “There’s still time to book. They always have cancellations, and you never know.”

“No, Gwen,” said her sister firmly. “This is your big holiday. And besides,” she pulled her coat from the back of the café chair, “I can’t afford it. Next year I’ll have my holiday of a lifetime and scandalise you all by learning exotic dancing or something!”

“Shay has a bit put by for a rainy day,” insisted Gwen. “You could pay us back. I’d love you to have a break.”

“Thanks but no thanks. I told you, Gwen, next year,” said Lizzie. “Next year will be my year.”

She shot her sister a strong, happy smile but it took some doing. In her heart, Lizzie didn’t think next year was going to be her year any more than this one was. She was so firmly in a rut that she’d need climbing equipment to get out. She had absolutely no idea how to solve the problem, but she
did
know that spending money she didn’t have would not help.

five

T
he other travellers boarding flight NR 706 from Chicago to Cork that Saturday morning watched the tall elegant young couple with interest. They were definitely both
somebody,
even though they wore comfortable faded jeans and didn’t make a fuss or anything when there was a horrendous queue down the gangway because the plane was delayed.

Martine Brady, flying home to Cork after a colder-than-expected month in the States staying with her sister, watched them enviously. She hadn’t seen a single famous person in all her time here. Not even a glimpse of Oprah, and she was supposed to be Chicagoan through and through. Martine, five people behind the glamorous couple in the queue, and bored, watched them with naked curiosity.

The woman was someone from the television, for sure. Her auburn hair was glossier than a Kentucky thoroughbred’s coat, her fine-boned face was clear-skinned and subtly made up. And that camel overcoat she wore to keep out the Chicago chill was definitely cashmere. Martine would have loved a coat like that, though you had to be tall and slim to wear it well. And rich. A newsreader, that was it. She looked like a newsreader—all polished and intelligent, even though she couldn’t have been but a few years older than Martine’s twenty-five. She wasn’t a movie star, Martine decided. Movie stars were always perfectly beautiful and this woman wasn’t. Her nose was too big and her face was just a bit too long. She was more interesting-looking than beautiful. The man was good-looking but not quite as polished. His coat was a bulky navy great-coat that would have dwarfed most men but he was tall and broad enough to get away with it. His hair was jet black and cut close to his skull. Maybe he was some famous sportsman Martine didn’t recognise—a footballer or something. Those American footballers were all built like tanks. They were certainly Americans, that was for definite. Rich American women had a certain, unmistakable gloss to them, and Martine wondered how you could recreate it back home. All those manicures and visits to get your hair blow-dried every five minutes.