Just Between Us (45 page)

Rose felt the weight of guilt over Holly crush her. She could barely reply. She cast her mind back over the last month, when Stella and Tara had phoned regularly, anxiety in their voices. Holly had phoned too, but on those occasions when she’d reached only Rose’s mobile phone answering service, she’d left a message but hadn’t phoned back. When Rose had rung Holly’s flat to return the call, the answering machine was always on. It was the same with her mobile phone. Rose couldn’t suppress the thought that Holly didn’t want to be contacted.

‘Do you think that Holly might come down and stay too, when Tara comes?’ Rose asked now.

‘I’m sure she’d love to,’ Stella said brightly.

Everyone except Freddie was tearful on Sunday afternoon. Rose, still crushed from feeling she’d let her daughters down by running away to stay with Freddie, hugged Stella as if they would never see each other again.

‘I wish you’d talked to me about Dad,’ Stella said quietly.

‘I’m sorry, I just can’t. Not yet,’ Rose replied. ‘Promise me you’ll phone often and tell me about Nick.’

‘Promise.’

‘Granny, when will I see you again?’ asked Amelia.

‘Soon. I won’t be here forever,’ Rose said, ‘Aunt Freddie’s
going to throw me out sometime, so I’ll come to stay with you.’

‘Will you bring Prinny, Mildred and Pig?’ Amelia wanted to know.

Even Adele laughed at this.

‘Goodbye, Rose, take care,’ she said, giving her sister-in-law the warmest hug they’d ever exchanged. ‘If you’re going to stay here, perhaps I could come again?’

‘If I stay here, of course,’ Rose said.

The following Friday evening, Joan, Kenny and Holly sat on the small balcony in the bigger flat and talked about the letter.

It was from SallyYvette Inc in New York and had been folded and unfolded so many times, it was beginning to resemble a piece of origami. Joan looked at it at least every ten minutes, just to remind herself that it wasn’t a dream and that SYInc were actually asking her to join their design team in Manhattan in September.

‘Me, they’re asking me,’ she said reverently, opening the precious letter again and running her fingers over the type as if some of the New York high fashion magic would enter her veins by osmosis.

‘It’s fantastic,’ said Holly, for the hundredth time. She did her best to inject wild delight into her voice but it was hard. She adored Joan and was as proud as any parent that Joan’s talent had been recognised. But the letter meant one thing: the beginning of the end of the terrible threesome’s flat-sharing days. Holly knew that she, Joan and Kenny would never lose their close friendship but once Joan left, things wouldn’t ever be quite the same again.

The three of them had their feet up on the iron railings and their faces to the sun as they caught the last few rays of a torrid June day. The street below them was busy with people heading off out for the evening. The man at number seventy-one was cutting his grass and the scent mingled with the heady smell of Kenny’s prized, though somewhat
stunted, herb pot which sat on the balcony in all weathers. This misshapen terracotta pot was designed with holes at odd places and was supposed to be perfect for growing herbs. The basil had long since died an unnatural death but the parsley was flourishing and the lavender (‘Lavender’s not a herb, is it?’ Joan had asked the day he got it) was rampantly fragrant.

Holly was eating crisps, holding her bottle of fruit juice between her thighs, and trying to tell herself she had no right to feel miserable when Joan was getting this marvellous career chance.

‘We’ll miss you,’ said Kenny mournfully. Kenny had taken the news worst. After an
Absolutely Fabulous
explosion of ‘Sweetie, that’s
fabulous
!’, he’d realised that Joan would be leaving. ‘Who’ll forget to clean the shower now?’ he asked, reaching out for a handful from Holly’s bumper bag of cheese and onion crisps. ‘Who’ll take my avocado and cucumber face mask from the fridge and smear it on their toast? Who’s going to put my Prada nylon T into the boil wash in the launderette?’

Holly giggled.

‘Don’t be sad,’ begged Joan.

‘We’re not,’ said Holly quickly. ‘We’re thrilled for you, we’re just being selfish pigs and thinking of how lucky New York is going to be because you’ll be there and we’ll be here being lonely without you.’

‘You can visit.’

Kenny perked up. ‘There’s this rumour of a designer outlet in the garment district where you can buy Calvin Klein pieces before they hit the stores. It could just be one of those urban myths, but imagine…’ his voice trailed off dreamily, lost in a vision of exquisite shirts and sharply-tailored suits with him inside them.

‘We’ll find it, wherever it is,’ promised Joan fiercely, as if this mission was the search for the Holy Grail. ‘I’ll track it down, right?’

Holly was floored by guilt. All poor Joan wanted was for
her two best friends to be happy for her, and there they were, whingeing like a couple of spoilt brats.

‘We should make plans,’ she said. ‘A plan for your leaving party and a plan for when we come and visit you.’

Joan’s eyes glittered suspiciously. Noticing this, Holly surged on. Joan never cried.

‘In fact, we could help you find a flat in New York on the Internet.’

‘No,’ shrieked Kenny, ‘we could go over with you for a long weekend and help. Feck the net.’

‘Yes,’ said Joan joyously. ‘You’ll both come, for more than a long weekend, right? You could come altogether!’

‘Why not?’ shrieked Kenny.

Holly thought of how she had nothing planned for the next hundred years. She also thought of Tom and how he and Caroline were up to their eyeballs planning the wedding of the century. Caroline drove up to Dublin every weekend now, clinging to Tom and insisting on honorary membership of their foursome, to the irritation of both Kenny and Joan. Holly never said anything when Joan complained about Caroline and her fake-friendship.

‘I hate that woman, do you know that? She’s so bloody plastic,’ Joan raged. ‘When she’s sweet to me, I know she doesn’t mean it. She’s working out how useful I could be to her in the future. Well, if she thinks I’m designing her bloody wedding dress, she can get stuffed.’

‘New York sounds great,’ Holly said now. ‘But how can we afford it?’

They all looked out over the balcony reflectively. Finances were always a problem. The landlord had put the rent up and Holly was doing as much overtime as she could to cope with the increase. Kenny was saving for a car, which would be invaluable for his styling work. Joan would have her ticket paid for, according to the letter from SYInc. ‘I wonder will they send me first class?’ she mused.

‘Probably,’ said Kenny. ‘You’ll fly first class and me and Holly will fly no class.’

‘Is that on the wings?’ joked Holly.

‘No, with the suitcases. And it’s BYOS too. Bring Your Own Sandwiches,’ he added.

‘If I get a first-class ticket, we could swap it for three economy ones,’ Joan said.

‘I always said you were a creative genius,’ beamed Kenny, clinking his can of Sprite with Joan’s bottled water.

The next evening Holly, shattered after a particularly busy day in Lee’s, was on her knees sorting through her laundry. Both Kenny and Joan were out, the television schedule for Saturday was dire and Holly decided that she might as well celebrate her exciting single girl lifestyle by spending the evening in the launderette. To add an edge of untrammelled decadence, she planned to buy a magazine and some chocolate on the way there. Who said career girls don’t have thrilling lives, she reflected wryly as she made neat piles of dark stuff, white stuff and things that had to be handwashed. The handwash stuff joined the permanently-growing pile in a basket. Tomorrow, Holly vowed, she would do it. The laundry had been heaped into two bags when the doorbell went. The landlord? Joan looking for a loan of some money? Holly went through the possibilities as she walked to the door.

Tom stood outside, looking uncomfortable. This wasn’t new. Since the morning after Joan’s fashion show triumph, he always looked uncomfortable when he met Holly. She knew that she probably looked the same. Their easy camaraderie had vanished the instant Tom had seen her returning home after the night with Vic. Now they muttered hello and went through the motions; politely saying things like ‘how are you?’ and even worse, ‘how’s work?’ like strangers who meet at the same bus stop for years. Because Kenny, Joan and Caroline each talked enough for ten people, nobody really noticed the huge, yawning gaps in the conversation between Holly and Tom.

Holly leaned against the door jamb. ‘Hi,’ she said, noticing that he had something in his hand.

‘Hi.’ He followed her gaze and held up the something. It was a small envelope and he offered it to her. ‘We’re having an engagement party next week and this is your invitation.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Holly took it. ‘Er, do you want to come in?’

He nodded.

Holly led the way in and sat down. At least she hadn’t got as far as pulling on something slobby and comfortable to schlep to the laundry, and was still wearing a chic work shirt and well tailored black trousers. Tom perched on the other couch but he didn’t sit back and relax. He kept looking at the envelope in Holly’s hands. She wasn’t sure if he wanted her to open it or not, but she did anyway.

Trust Caroline, she thought, as she stared at the formal invitation which invited ‘Holly & guest’ to a party in a city-centre hotel in ten days time. The ‘& guest’ bit really irritated Holly. She could imagine Caroline filling that in with a certain relish. Poor Holly, she hadn’t any significant other to bring with her, so she could bring a
guest
, the unattached woman’s face-saving device.

‘I sort of imagined you’d have a party in Cork rather than Dublin,’ Holly remarked.

‘Caroline’s moving to Dublin next month. She thought it would be a good way to start her life up here with a party,’ Tom explained.

‘Oh.’ Holly wondered how many of Tom and Caroline’s friends would be devoted enough to make the six-hour round trip from Cork and back for a mid-week party.

As if Tom could read her mind, he said: ‘A lot of the Cork crowd probably won’t be able to come, but Caroline says we’ve enough new friends here.’

Holly felt a certain sympathy for Caroline’s old friends, ruthlessly consigned to the bottom of the pile as she went in search of new ones. She cast around for something else to say. ‘Is it going to be a big party, then?’

A flash of irritation crossed Tom’s face, so fleeting that Holly thought she must have imagined it. ‘You know Caroline, she
likes to make a splash. She’s trying to get Vic’s brother’s band to play.’

At the mention of Vic’s name, Holly cringed inwardly. Tom wouldn’t know how things had ended with Vic: Holly still squirmed when she thought of that.

Suddenly, she was too weary to spend any more time having a wooden conversation with a man she’d cared for from afar. Tom belonged to someone else anyhow, and he obviously disapproved of what he believed to be her whirlwind relationship with Vic. Holly had had just about as much of other people’s disapproval as she could cope with. She stood up. ‘I’ve got to go out, Tom,’ she said apologetically. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He got up quickly. ‘Me too.’

‘Yeah,’ Holly glanced at her watch. ‘Time flies and all that.’

‘Yeah.’ A brief smile flashed across his face. ‘So you can come to the party? With Vic?’

Somehow, Holly managed to fix a noncommittal look on her face. ‘I’m sure I’ll be able to,’ was all she said.

When Tom was gone, her enthusiasm for the launderette had vanished. But it had to be done. Holly pulled her denim jacket on, grabbed her wallet and the washing, and set out.

Soapy Susi’s was virtually empty, apart from one gloomy looking man in a shabby suit who’d clearly had a bad day at the office. Holly averted her eyes from his miserable face. She stuck her washing in the giant tubs and wished she had enough money to afford the service wash all the time. Or a washing machine of her own. It had been lovely when Kenny wasn’t too busy for laundry duty: he liked doing the washing. Holly made herself comfortable on an old vinyl chair, carefully opened the foil wrapping on her chocolate bar and flicked to the first page of her magazine.

She was deep in an article on celebrity break-ups when the door of Soapy Susi’s squeaked open. She didn’t look up. Eye contact was fatal in the launderette. With no diversion
(you couldn’t count the wonky television set high up on one wall and permanently tuned to the shopping channel), it was easy to get embroiled in a two-hour conversation with a complete nutter. Holly’s Bermuda Triangle effect meant that if a weirdo of any variety was in the vicinity, they would somehow detect her presence and rush, open-armed, to find her. Her most disastrous encounter had happened the previous month when she’d been there with Joan. The sweet, confused, elderly man in yellow paisley pyjamas
hadn’t
lost his way and wandered in by mistake. No. He’d been a flasher who’d gleefully flashed the whole of Soapy Susi’s clientele just as a well-intentioned Holly was asking him if he knew where he was and could she phone anyone to come and pick him up. Joan had laughed so much, she’d sounded like a hyena.

‘I thought he might be lost and we should phone the police or someone,’ said a bewildered Holly when Pyjama Man had legged it out the door before any of the astonished customers could get a hold of him.

‘We could phone the police, all right,’ screeched Joan between hyena noises, ‘but they might say we’re wasting their time over a flasher wielding nothing more than a cocktail sausage.’

Holly had learned her lesson. Eyes down and don’t get involved: that was her new motto.

She turned the page, still nibbling her chocolate. Holly could make one chocolate bar last ten minutes as she savoured every forbidden sliver.
What’s Your Love Match?
screamed the headline at the top of a feature on horoscopes and picking the perfect partner. Holly instantly looked up what sort of man liked Cancerians. Her ideal partner would be
strong, kind and able to nudge gentle, shy Cancerians out of their shell. Your ideal mate understands that even though you appear reserved, you’re still passionate and wild under that gentle exterior
.

Holly popped the last square of chocolate into her mouth, scanning to see if Cancerians were compatible with Taureans,
Tom’s sign, when somebody loomed over her. On lunatic-alert, she jerked her head up to see Tom himself, holding an empty sports bag.

‘I’m glad I’m not the only one with thrilling Saturday night plans,’ he said ruefully, grinning at her. He sat down beside Holly, stretched out his long legs, and leaned back in the vinyl chair.

Holly couldn’t resist seeing the funny side of it. ‘Wait till nine, then this place comes alive,’ she said. ‘You have no idea…Man, it’s hot. There’s dancing, occasionally nudity, and the shopping channel gets really interesting.’

‘Fancy that,’ said Tom, still grinning. ‘Tell me about the nudity bit. You mean people come in and strip down to their underwear, like that old Levi’s ad?’

Holly had a sudden vision of Pyjama Man and she started to laugh.

‘You wouldn’t believe it if I told you,’ she said.

‘Try me.’

He laughed at the story, but not as heartily as Joan had. ‘You must have been upset,’ he said, probing gently.

‘Well, not really. If Joan hadn’t been with me, I’d have cried. But she laughed so much that it sort of made it funny.’

‘Good for Joan.’

‘You see, normally, I’m on my own when these mad things happen. It’s the magnetic effect; I attract strange people.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Tom looked irritated that Holly would think this of herself.