The Art of Friendship (14 page)

A tingle of excitement ran down Clare’s spine. She gave a little shiver and squeezed her hands between her knees. Janice was right. This was the start of a new chapter with, she hoped, many exciting possibilities ahead.

‘So where are the finished pictures?’ said Janice.

‘There aren’t any,’ said Clare, deadpan. She hid her face behind her hair.

‘What do you mean?’ said Janice. A look of panic crossed her face. ‘The exhibition’s only weeks away.’

‘“Art is never finished, only abandoned”,’ quoted Clare.

‘Leonardo da Vinci,’ said Janice, and she put her hand on her heart and let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. ‘Don’t do that to me, Clare. You nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘Sorry,’ said Clare, struggling to hide a smile.

‘Okay, Leonardo, where’s your
abandoned
work, then?’

‘In that case on the floor,’ said Clare, pointing at a black nylon portfolio propped against the wall. It had been a gift from Liam their first Christmas together. He understood then how passionate she was about art – she wondered how he had forgotten.

Janice put the cigarette between her perfectly lined and painted lips, crouched down, pulled out the paintings and spread them on the floor. She took the cigarette out of her mouth and said, ‘They’re all good, Clare.’

‘Some of them aren’t good enough. I don’t like that one of Ballycastle. The perspective’s all wonky. Or that one of Portstewart Strand. The sky’s wrong – too much yellow. And the people on the beach at Whiterocks look like ants.’

Janice gave a little laugh. ‘Artists are never satisfied with their work. They always see flaws that aren’t there.’

She gathered all the pictures together again. ‘Well, I think you’re being far too critical. Any one of them would stand up to the toughest scrutiny. However, it’s your decision. You must have complete confidence in everything you put into the exhibition.’ She looked over her shoulder at Clare. ‘What about getting them framed?’

‘Patsy said she’d take care of that. That reminds me – I need to drop some of those ones off at the gallery so the framer can get started on them.’

‘Do you want me to do that tomorrow?’ said Janice, leaving the pictures momentarily to throw the cigarette stub out the door. She slammed the door shut. ‘I can if you like. I’ve nothing else to do. It’ll save you the bother of dragging the kids all the way down there.’

‘That’d be absolutely great, Janice. Thanks.’

Janice came and stared at the picture on top of the pile.
It was one of Clare’s favourites – the Black Arch outside Ballyfergus. ‘Such talent,’ she said.

Clare blushed with embarrassment and, changing topic to deflect the unwarranted flattery, said, ‘Let me just take some of those out. Some of them aren’t good enough.’ She removed several pictures from the folder, set them on the floor by the desk and sat down.

Janice folded her arms and paced the studio, completing two restless circuits of the small room. She came to a standstill at the end of the desk and stared at a box of paints. Unnerved, Clare busied herself: she took the rigger out of the jar of water, wiped it with a piece of kitchen roll and set it to dry on the shallow tray with the other brushes. She screwed the lid on a tube of paint she’d left out and tossed it in the box with the others. Then she put her right thumb in her mouth, chewed what remained of the nail and waited. The long, awkward pause seemed to go on for ever, tension building like heat inside a car on a summer’s day.

Just as Clare opened her mouth to fill the air with meaningless chatter, Janice blurted out, ‘Do you think adopted people have the right to know who their biological parents are?’

Clare paused, stunned by the question. She considered how to answer it while wondering why on earth Janice was asking her. She picked up a brush and chewed the end of it. ‘It depends,’ she said at last.

Janice fumbled in her pocket, lit another cigarette, and offered one to Clare, forgetting momentarily that her friend didn’t smoke. Clare shook her head and noticed with surprise that Janice’s hands were shaking. Janice, who was always so self-assured, so confident. It occurred to Clare that this might not be a theoretical question. Was it possible Janice was asking about herself? She’d always been guarded
about her background – she never, for example, talked about her parents. Had she been adopted? Clare could never ask her – personal questions had always been off limits with Janice.

‘On what?’ asked Janice, pulling hard on the cigarette. She blew out a spiralling, almost beautiful, plume of smoke from between pursed red lips.

‘Well, what I mean is, it’s everybody’s right to know their genealogy – to know where they came from – isn’t it? But it might not always be the best thing, in their interests or other people’s, for them to find out.’

Janice was staring hard at her. ‘Under what sort of circumstances?’

‘Well, say a young girl put her baby up for adoption and then went on to get married and have a family later in life. If she never told her husband about the baby she wouldn’t want to be contacted, would she?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ said Janice. ‘It might cause all sorts of problems for her and her family.’

‘Exactly. Or if a child grew up not knowing they were adopted, more harm than good might come out of telling them. And you might not want to tell a child about a real parent if you thought that parent would be a disappointment or a bad influence – like a drug addict or a violent criminal. That sort of thing.’ Clare paused, feeling out of her depth. ‘Why are you asking me this, Janice?’

Janice shrugged and said lightly, ‘It’s just that someone I know isn’t sure if they should tell their daughter that she’s adopted.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Clare and wondered who the friend might be. ‘Well, it depends how old she is, doesn’t it? If they tell her when she’s very young she’ll grow up always knowing and it’ll be no big deal.’

‘She’s a teenager. And her parents think that telling her would lead to…heartache for all concerned.’

Clare paused, took the brush from between her teeth and said, ‘Then maybe they shouldn’t tell her.’ She shrugged. ‘But without knowing the whole story, it’s hard to know what to do, isn’t it? It’s a difficult one.’

Janice nodded gravely, the cigarette burnt to a stub in her hand. She looked at it, went to the door and threw it out into the garden.

Clare shifted uncomfortably in her seat, feeling somehow that her answer had been inadequate, that she had let Janice down. But without the full facts she didn’t know what the right answer was and anyway, who was she to advise? What did she know? But perhaps that wasn’t what Janice wanted from her. Perhaps, she concluded, all Janice wanted was someone to listen.

‘Well,’ said Janice, snapping herself out of the sombre mood, ‘I suppose I’d better let you get on, hadn’t I?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Clare, ‘that I couldn’t be of more help to you.’

‘Oh, that’s alright,’ said Janice, with a forced smile. She picked up the portfolio and swung the long webbing strap over her left shoulder. She walked over to the door and then delivered her parting shot.

‘I’ll make sure Patsy gets these pictures,’ she said, tapping the portfolio with the flat of her left hand.

‘Thanks, Janice.’

‘And don’t worry about my friend, Clare. I know exactly what I’m going to tell her to do.’

It was after twelve when Clare finally called it a night. She washed out the brushes, cleaned the porcelain palette, and rinsed out the jam jars, making sure the studio was shipshape and ready for next time. If Liam was home reasonably early
tomorrow night she hoped to finish the Carnlough Harbour picture. After that, she’d need to give some thought to what she was going to paint next.

As she locked up the studio, a wave of exhaustion overcame Clare. She’d been on the go for more than eighteen hours, and she’d be lucky to get five hours’ sleep tonight. She was getting used to tiredness though. When she was painting it barely registered. It was only when she was doing other, more mundane activities, that exhaustion hit her like a sledge-hammer.

It was after one when Clare let herself into the kitchen, feeling like a naughty teenager sneaking in after curfew. She locked the back door, hung the key on the hook behind the curtain and slipped off her shoes. She was glad it was so late – Liam had work in the morning and would almost certainly be asleep by now. After their earlier exchange, she had no wish to talk to him. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, anxiety gnawing at her like hunger. She and Liam were never going to see eye-to-eye on the subject of her work and the domestic compromises that were needed to enable her to paint. But she was prepared to fight for them.

She drank a glass of water standing at the sink, left her jacket over the back of a chair and crept upstairs. She was surprised to see light spilling out onto the landing from the opened door of the room she shared with Liam. Perhaps he had fallen asleep with the light on? She would check in a moment – but first she had something much more important to do.

In Rachel’s room, she lowered the side of the cot, and rolled Rachel onto her back. She responded by curling into the foetal position and putting her thumb in her rosebud mouth. Clare nuzzled her face into Rachel’s neck, inhaled her peachy smell and brushed her lips on Rachel’s hot, soft
cheek. In Josh’s room she performed the same ritual. She ruffled his spiky hair and thought how much younger he looked when he was asleep.

She paused outside the door to Izzy’s room. It was firmly shut. She put her palm on the wood and sighed. Poor little Izzy, shunted between her alienated parents like a tennis ball. Her hand slid down the door and fell to her side. She had tried to help her, she really had. But Izzy, she decided, was no longer her problem.

How she loved her children. And how much more she loved them because she felt fulfilled – in spite of the lack of sleep, the difficulties with Izzy and Liam, and the pressure of responsibilities at home. Not to mention the pressure to produce saleable paintings. But she was happier than she had been since before Josh was born. This joy was different from the everyday delight that comes from the wondrous, but commonplace – a clear blue sky or the weight of a sleepy child on your shoulder at the end of a busy day. This happiness came from the fact that Clare was doing something special. She was living a dream.

Yes, it was bloody hard work but she was managing things remarkably well. The balls were all in the air and none had, yet, fallen to the ground. So though she was tired, she was feeling rather pleased with herself when she tiptoed into the master bedroom to be met by Liam sitting up in bed, his face hidden behind a book. Clare’s smile evaporated as the memory of their earlier quarrel returned. She still felt guilty about the meal, or rather the absence of it. These feelings of culpability annoyed her. She tried to shake them off but they were stubborn, like ketchup stains.

Liam closed the book and set it on the bedside table without looking at her. ‘You’re home late.’ He had a blank expression on his face but his voice was full of disapproval.

‘I had a lot to do,’ she said, brightly. ‘I thought you’d be asleep by now. You’ve got to get up in the morning.’

‘So have you,’ said Liam.

Clare shrugged, slipped her pyjamas out from under the pillow and went into the en-suite bathroom to change. Lately she hadn’t felt comfortable changing in front of Liam. She’d always been conscious of her weight and she’d put on a few extra pounds after the birth of the children. But this recent onset of modesty had more to do with the alienation she felt from Liam than from her own body.

She washed her face, brushed her teeth, flicked off the light and slipped into bed. She rolled onto her side facing him, plumped the pillow a few times, and said, ‘We’d better get to sleep.’

She laid her head down and closed her eyes. The reading light by Liam’s bed remained stubbornly on.

‘I don’t think we can go on like this,’ said Liam, and there was a long pause.

‘Liam, it’s late,’ she said with a soft sigh, a sound that belied her inner turmoil. Her fear of confrontation. ‘We both need to go to sleep. Can’t we talk tomorrow?’ She held her breath.

‘When tomorrow, Clare? You’re never available to talk. You’re either busy doing things around the house or out with your friends or taking off to the studio.’

Clare opened her eyes. ‘I’ve hardly seen the girls these last few months,’ she said, letting the air out of her lungs. ‘And you make it sound as though I go to the studio to gad about. I go there to work, Liam.’

‘You see more of the girls than you do of me.’

‘Don’t be silly. You see me every day.’

‘It’s not the same. You’re always…engaged in some activity. Or rushing off to the studio, like tonight. I was only
in the door and you shot out of it like a bullet, leaving me to fend for myself and Izzy.’

‘What d’you mean, Izzy? She’d already had her tea.’

‘She said she was starving.’

‘The wee madam,’ said Clare, propping herself up on her elbow. ‘She’s only taking advantage of you, you know. What did you make to eat?’

‘Does it matter?’ said Liam, shooting her a searing glance. ‘She’s only a child, Clare. How can she take advantage of me?’

‘Easily,’ said Clare. ‘She manipulates people all the time. Sure, the other day…’

‘I wish you would stop talking about my daughter like that,’ interrupted Liam.

Clare felt like she’d been slapped in the face. After everything she had done to try to assimilate Izzy into her family. ‘Well, I wish you would take care of
your
daughter and stop leaving her in my care.’

He flinched, jerked his head in the opposite direction. ‘That hardly ever happens. Only if I get held up at work.’ His tone was indignant.

‘Or you have to work the weekends she comes to stay,’ she said, satisfied she had hit a raw nerve.

‘Come on, that doesn’t happen often.’

‘Often enough.’

Liam’s eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth twitched. ‘Are you saying that you object to looking after Izzy? Not that she needs much looking after.’

Clare’s pulse raced. ‘She needs more attention than Josh and Rachel.’