The Art of Friendship (34 page)

‘What can I do to win back your trust?’

Kirsty gave her a ghost of a smile. ‘Well, for a start, don’t lie to me ever again.’

‘Oh, Kirsty,’ said Clare and she clapped her hands together and held them, palms together, under her chin. ‘I won’t. I promise I won’t. Not as long as I live. Does this mean we’re friends again?’

‘It means we’re going to give it another go,’ said Kirsty shyly.

Clare extended her arm across the table and Kirsty did the same. Clare clasped Kirsty’s hand and realised it was shaking. She squeezed hard and smiled. ‘I promise you, Kirsty, you’ll not regret this.’ She let out a long happy sigh and released her friend’s hand.

There was an awkward pause then and Kirsty said, ‘So, how are things between you and Liam?’

Clare brightened. ‘Much better, thanks.’

Kirsty set her bag on the floor, crossed her legs and took a sip of juice. ‘Last time I spoke to you it sounded pretty bad. You’d just found out about that woman Gillian.’

‘It was bad,’ said Clare, her smile fading at the memory. ‘But we’re sorting things out now.’ Clare went on to tell her about the confrontation with Zoe, and Izzy’s role in it, about her reconciliation with Liam and the counselling.

Kirsty listened intently and when Clare was finished said, ‘That’s wonderful news, Clare. I’m really pleased for you. Are you managing to paint in the midst of all this drama?’

‘I’ve just started doing two sessions a week. I go up to the studio on a Thursday night when Liam gets home early, and do either first thing on a Saturday or a Sunday morning. I
can put in three hours and be home by ten. It hardly impacts on family life at all.’

‘I’m glad you’re managing to work. It would be a great shame to see all the momentum and interest generated by the exhibition go to waste.’

‘That’s what Liam said. He’s been very encouraging. I have a couple of commissions to do and Patsy’s going to hang a few pieces in the gallery for me on a permanent basis and we’ll see how it goes from there.’

‘It sounds like it’s all come together.’

Clare nodded, considering this. ‘Yes, I suppose it has. And now that you and me are friends again, well, everything’s perfect.’ She smiled broadly.

Kirsty raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, not quite. Don’t forget about Patsy and Janice.’

Clare’s face fell. ‘Oh, yeah,’ she said dully. ‘Are things just as bad between them?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Clare, suddenly feeling very self-centred. She’d been so focused on getting her own life back on track that she’d given only a passing thought to Janice and Patsy. ‘With all that’s been going on at home I haven’t been much of a friend to either of them. I was hoping it might have all blown over by now.’

Kirsty pursed her lips and said grimly, ‘This one isn’t going to, I don’t think. Patsy is so bitter about what happened. She’s changed, Clare. She’s not the bubbly, happy Patsy we used to know. She says she can never forgive Janice and Keith.’

‘Don’t you think that’s a little unfair? To blame them for what Pete did?’

‘I do. But the way Patsy sees it, Pete’s got off scot-free. Though Keith did stop Pete’s allowance and told him that if
he wanted money this summer he’d have to go out and earn it himself.’

Clare nodded. Liam had mentioned that Pete was now working behind the bar at the golf club.

‘The final straw came when Janice and Keith found out that Pete had made no effort to contact Laura – after promising them he would face up to his responsibilities. According to Patsy he’d not even picked up the phone, never mind gone to see her. He left her to sort out the mess by herself.’

Clare took a sharp intake of breath. ‘That is bad.’

Kirsty nodded, took a sip of juice and said sanguinely, ‘For right or wrong, Patsy’s looking for someone to hang the blame on. And on top of Laura she’s worried sick about Martin not getting another job. She’s got a lot on her plate.’

‘But if you and I can patch things up, surely there’s hope for them?’

Kirsty sighed. ‘You’d think so,’ she said but shook her head.

‘I miss our nights out,’ said Clare.

‘Me too.’

‘It’s just awful, the four of us not being able to go out. Do you think we will ever all be friends again, Kirsty? Do you think it possible that things can ever be the way they were before?’

‘I don’t know the answer to that, Clare,’ said Kirsty, folding her arms across her chest. ‘But I do know that I’m fed up being piggy in the middle between Janice and Patsy. I don’t want to side with one over the other because I can see both points of view.’

Clare nodded in agreement. ‘I hear Laura’s got a summer job as a lifeguard in the sports centre.’ Laura had always been a great swimmer.

‘Do you think she’s going to be alright?’ asked Kirsty.

‘I don’t know,’ said Clare and she bowed her head. ‘I’m
sure it was for the best. In the end,’ she said quietly, not sure if she believed this, ‘she’s only a girl herself. Far too young to be thinking of raising a baby.’

Kirsty shook her head sadly and stared out of the window. She squinted as if focusing on something far away. ‘Chris has taken a job in Dubai,’ she suddenly blurted out. ‘He starts at the end of August.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Clare slowly. ‘And he’s still no idea how you feel about him?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘I left it too late and now all the arrangements are made. And if I’m honest with myself I know that had he cared for me one jot he never would’ve taken the job in the first place.’

‘That’s not necessarily true,’ said Clare carefully. ‘Chris could well be taking the job precisely
because
he cares for you. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t stand a chance with you and that’s why he’s going away.’

‘You are a hopeless romantic, Clare,’ said Kirsty with a crooked smile. ‘And it’s sweet of you to say that to try and make me feel better. But you and I both know that just isn’t the case. I do love you for it though.’

‘Oh, Kirsty,’ said Clare with a heavy sigh.

‘It’s okay. I’ve a lot to be grateful for, I really have. And I’m getting used to the idea that I might never meet someone.’

‘You mustn’t give up hope, Kirsty.’

‘I’ll try not to. But as far as Chris Carmichael is concerned, it’s over.’

Much later Kirsty, unable to sleep, wandered the house in her pyjamas. She stopped by the front window, the curtains never closed now against the long, light evenings, and stared out onto the street where, hours before, a horde of squealing children had played. The sky had faded to a pale yellow-grey, dark clouds drawn across it like skeins of navy-blue wool.
The street-lamps cast pools of orange light all along the road, illuminating the signs of family life – old scooters and bikes abandoned in front of garages or on well-worn lawns, bunting tied between trees at number seventeen (left over from a child’s birthday party) and hop-scotch chalked onto the pavement.

After Adam’s accident, the residents had clubbed together and put up warning signs that read, ‘Slow! Children at Play’. Under the word ‘Slow’ on each of the bright yellow signs was a picture of a child on a scooter. Mary Clark had ordered them from Amazon and got her husband to hammer them halfway up old wooden telegraph poles at either end of the street, and one directly opposite the junction where Adam had been injured. They were quite illegal of course, as Keith had pointed out, but Mary had said that they were coming down over her dead body. The council, displaying rare wisdom, had decided to leave well alone.

A residents’ committee had been formed with Phil O’Brien as chair and they were campaigning to have speed bumps installed along the road. People were so very good and Kirsty was grateful, but it did not stop the hard knot of terror forming in her stomach every time one of the children ventured beyond the front garden.

She realised her reaction stemmed from her overprotectiveness towards her sons. Scott’s early death had brought home to her the fragility of life. She knew how easily it could be snuffed out – literally in an instant, with no time for goodbyes or regrets or reflection. And she had clung to the life left behind in the form of David and Adam, fretting over every conceivable danger they might encounter daily. She was in danger of suffocating them. Soon David would seek independence beyond the confines of home, school and their immediate neighbourhood.
And when that time came, Kirsty prayed she would have the wisdom to give it to him.

As for the fear, she would have to learn to live with it, plain and simple – a private, daily challenge she fought to overcome. She resented this insidious legacy of the accident, still lingering long after Adam’s scars had healed and the brand-new sheen had worn off his red bike, the envy of the street. Sometimes it made her angry with Clare but she tried not to hold it against her. She had, after all, just given her forgiveness. She only wished Patsy could find it in her heart to do the same for Janice. Patsy had just announced that she wouldn’t be going to London and none of them had the heart to make the trip without her. Kirsty tried not to take the blow too hard, but right now there seemed precious little to look forward to.

She went through her nightly ritual of checking on the boys, who still shared a room. She pulled down pyjama legs that had ridden up above the knee, tucked duvets under chins, smoothed hair off brows, kissed foreheads and placed each child’s favourite toy in the crook of their arm.

Then she went into her own room, crawled under the cool cotton sheet and closed her eyes. And thought of Chris as she did every night, except tonight her analysis was cold and critical. She had mistaken his kindness for affection when, all along, it was mere pity for a lonely young widow. She had been foolish to think they had a future.

Kirsty rolled over and put her hand on her heart, so full of heaviness it ached. And as she lay there in the dark, unable to get to sleep, she realised what had changed – all hope had, finally, been put to rest.

It was several weeks before Kirsty saw Chris again. Instead of making sure she was at home every Friday, she now took care to be out of the house whenever possible. She took to leaving an envelope with his money in it under a flowerpot by the back door so that she would not have to talk to him. And when that was unavoidable, she faced up to him with as bright and breezy an air as she could muster, determined to betray no sign that her heart was slowly crumbling as the day of his departure approached.

But this warm and cloudless Friday she was stuck at home waiting for the DHL delivery man. She readied herself for the inevitable meeting with Chris, boxing up her feelings like the parcel of books she awaited and sealing it with determination.

The children, on holiday from school for the summer, were still in their pyjamas watching TV and she was upstairs when she heard Chris’s car pull up. She listened for the click of the side gate, then went and stood half-hidden behind the curtain in the boys’ room, unable to resist watching. She loved the measured, smooth way Chris moved across the lawn, bending now to pick up a bucket and walking unhurriedly over to the patch of roses by the pond.

It was the beginning of August and the garden was at the
peak of perfection, bursting with flowers and fruit. In a few weeks the inevitable decay and slide into autumn would begin – the time of year Kirsty hated most. Not just because autumn, the season of death, was so depressing in itself, but because it would be the fourth anniversary of Scott’s death in November. She already dreaded it, fearing most of all the way the boys would struggle manfully to recall a father whose memory faded with every day, no matter how hard she and her in-laws tried to keep it alive.

Chris took a pair of red-handled secateurs from his back pocket and started to dead-head the roses.

After some minutes Adam appeared, running across the grass barefoot in his pyjamas, his Spider-Man dressing gown billowing out behind him like a cape. Chris looked up and smiled when he saw the boy. Immediately he stopped what he was doing, and called him over to the pond where they both hunkered down on the grass and Chris pointed at the water. Adam sat, listening intently, his face raised to Chris like the sun, hugging his knees with his arms.

Kirsty turned away then, wondering why the image of man and boy, heads tilted towards one another, touched her so. Perhaps because she had once upon a time pictured that scene with Scott in it – it made her so sad to think of all the simple fatherly pleasures he would never know. And how cruelly her sons had been robbed of a good father.

She went downstairs to find Adam back in front of the TV with his brother, both of them staring at the screen like zombies. She switched it off to a howl of protest and said, ‘It’s ten thirty. Time to get dressed, you two.’

‘Let’s go outside,’ said David, jumping up and looking out of the window. ‘Let’s see if anybody wants to play tig.’

‘Okay,’ Adam followed his brother out of the room on
tiptoes, swinging the ends of the dressing-gown belt in his hands.

Minutes later they were both back downstairs fully clothed in the crumpled garments they’d worn yesterday. Their hair stuck up on end and neither of them, judging by the speed with which they had dressed, had done their teeth. Kirsty sighed and smiled and decided to let it go just this once. They opened the door and ran outside.

‘Be careful on the road now and don’t go any further than Milly Campbell’s. Or Darren Weir’s at the other end! And don’t,’ she called after them, her voice rising to a shriek, ‘whatever you do, play on the road.’ She put her hand to her neck, felt the throb and heat of her anxiety.

David suddenly stopped, turned around and ran back to her. He took her hands in his, folded them one on top of the other, like she did when she was having a serious chat with him – a caring gesture that signified that, for the first time and just for this moment, the tables had been turned. He looked up at her, squinting in the sun, his nose sprinkled with freckles like spilt pepper on a creamy white tablecloth.

‘We’re going to be perfectly alright, Mum. Now will you stop worrying?’ he said, mimicking her words and tone of voice and she had to laugh – and hold back the tears at the same time.

In the kitchen the sun was beating through the windows making the room hot and stuffy. The breakfast things were still on the table and the smell of stale cat food filled the air. Kirsty opened the back door and Candy slid past her legs into the garden. A strong breeze gusted in. Kirsty wedged the door open with the back of a chair and resisted the urge to glance outside. She scraped out Candy’s food bowl, filled it with water to steep and flung open the window above the
sink. But the breeze was stronger than she’d realised and, in opening the window and the door together, she’d created a wind tunnel.

The breeze filled the green gingham curtains all at once and blew them inwards like miniature sails. One of them caught the edge of a dusty silver-framed photograph sitting on the highest of the decorative shelves that finished the run of kitchen units along the wall. The photograph inched forwards a few centimetres. Kirsty saw what was about to happen and stretched out a hand to push it back onto the shelf, but she was not tall enough. Even on tiptoes, she could not reach. Another gust of wind and the curtain flicked the picture off the shelf. She tried to catch it, but she was too slow, too clumsy. It slid past her like a shadow, hit the kitchen counter with a crack and bounced to the floor. There was a loud crash as the frame hit the tiles. Kirsty cried out. The glass splintered into tiny pieces and showered across the floor like diamonds.

Kirsty took a step backwards and steadied herself against the solidness of the kitchen units. Scott’s face stared up at her, the photograph now released from its glassy prison. The picture had been taken by one of Scott’s biking pals on a ride in the Sperrins the summer before he died. He was wearing a black tight-fitting biking top and had taken his cycling helmet off for the photo. He stood astride his bike, squinting at the camera, while behind him was the beautiful rolling scenery of the Glenelly Valley. He was smiling broadly, happy and carefree.

Kirsty knelt down and picked the photograph up gingerly, little shards of glass tinkling to the floor. Then she started to cry. The man staring out from the picture seemed like a stranger to her, but still she grieved for the love they had once shared. She wept for Scott, for the life he had lost and her little boys too.

But most of all she cried for what might have been with Chris. She cried because she truly believed that she would never know love again, that she would live the rest of her days in lonely widowhood. And she cried for other things too – the friendship lost between her friends, what had happened to Laura, Adam’s accident. It all came out in one great flood of misery. And she made no attempt to hold it back.

‘Kirsty!’ came Chris’s voice from behind her. ‘Are you alright?’ She struggled to her feet, the picture still in her hand, and turned around. He was standing with a bunch of small, shiny courgettes, weeping at the ends where they had been severed from the mother plant, in his hands. She nodded.

Hastily, he set the vegetables on the table among the cereal packets and came over to her. ‘I was just bringing these in when I heard a crash and then your scream. Are you hurt?’ He held out an arm as though he was about to touch her and then thought better of it. The arm fell to his side.

Kirsty sniffed, looked at the photo and started to cry again.

‘Here, let me,’ said Chris and he took the picture gently from her grasp and held it up to the light in his big calloused hands. He let out a long sigh when he saw what it was. ‘It’s okay, Kirsty. Honestly. It’s not damaged at all. All you need is a new frame and it’ll be right as rain. Here, let me shut that window.’ He stepped around her and the broken glass, secured the window and came and stood in front of her again. He gave her a reassuring smile which for some reason made the tears come all the more freely.

The smile fell from his face. ‘I know photographs have great sentimental value, Kirsty, but you have no need to cry. The photograph is perfect. Look, let me help you clear up this mess.’

He held the photograph between his thumb and forefinger and extended his arm, expecting her to take the picture, but she shook her head. He looked at it and frowned, not knowing what to do.

‘I’m not crying over the photo,’ she managed to say between tears, and was consumed once again by a bout of weeping. She bent towards him like a reed, her heart aching for his touch, for the safety and security of his arms. She wept like she had not done since Scott died. When she glanced at him finally, he was standing awkwardly, looking away, his face flushed with embarrassment.

Kirsty wiped the tears from her face and tried to compose herself. But she was tired of being brave, of coping, of pretending. ‘I’m crying about a lot of things,’ she said flatly.

His face relaxed and he smiled sympathetically, evidently relieved that she had stopped weeping.

‘I’m crying because I don’t know how I’m going to manage when you go away, Chris.’

‘Sure, I’ve got a new gardener lined up for you. A good guy who knows what he’s doing. Someone you’ll feel comfortable having around you and the boys. I was going to bring him over next week to meet you. If you want me to.’

Her answer was knee-jerk. ‘I don’t want to meet him.’ She realised how petulant she sounded – like a spoilt child.

Chris opened his mouth a little and cocked his head to one side. ‘Kirsty?’

She had no control over the words that came from her mouth. Even as she primed herself for rejection, she could no longer suppress what she felt. ‘I don’t want someone else around the place. I want you, Chris.’

She stared at him, shocked by her boldness, amazed that she had simply blurted out the thing she had agonised over for so long. And now that she had done it, she immediately
regretted it. Embarrassment engulfed her like a crippling paralysis. Her cheeks flamed with mortification. What had she done? Was she mad? She could not take her eyes off Chris. She waited for him to do something, say something. Anything.

‘But…’ he said and then, slowly, realisation dawned. His eyebrows came together, a deep line forming between them like a scar. He sucked in his upper lip until it disappeared. He looked perplexed. Confused. Embarrassed. She closed her eyes.

She realised in that instant that even though she knew there was no hope – she had resigned herself to that – she needed him to know that she loved him. And with the words came a sense of release, of freedom. She was no longer a prisoner to her fears. The worst was done. She opened her eyes.

Chris cleared his throat in a theatrical manner and set Scott’s photograph down carefully on the nearby kitchen counter. ‘Do you mean what I think you mean?’ he said.

The air was thick with tension. Kirsty could hardly breathe. Their eyes were locked together, unblinking. He held her gaze, his blue eyes intense, unflinching, for what seemed like a very long time. She could not speak. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

All of a sudden he sucked air in loudly and turned away so that his back was towards her. He bent his head, the skin on the back of his neck brown and leathery with the sun, and put a hand to his face. His broad, work-honed shoulders strained against the yoke of the shirt, worn with age and use to a pale sky-blue.

He stood like that for a few moments, while Kirsty’s cheeks burned with shame. What had she done? In unburdening her feelings had she simply encumbered Chris with them?
Placed him in the uncomfortable position of having to let her down gently? Had she spoiled the lovely friendship they had shared these last few years? Tears of regret welled up inside. A lump lodged in her chest.

At last Chris straightened up and turned to face her once more, manoeuvring his big feet carefully between the shards of broken glass. He had a resigned look on his face, the face of someone about to deliver bad news. Kirsty bit her lip and steeled herself, ready to take it on the chin.

He glanced at the photo of Scott before speaking. ‘I…you’ve taken me by surprise, Kirsty. That was the last thing I expected to hear.’

She lifted her head and stared at him. She could hardly bear the tears of pity in his eyes. She looked away and chastised herself. Why couldn’t she have left well alone? Chris would be gone in a few weeks’ time and she could’ve saved herself, and him, from this excruciating encounter.

‘I know it can’t be easy raising two boys on your own, though you do a fantastic job.’

Under normal circumstances she would have basked in this praise. Today, though, it sounded like a kindly prelude to letting her down.

He paused and his glance was drawn to the photograph of Scott again. He averted his gaze quickly. ‘I understand how much you miss your husband, Kirsty, and the pain must still be very raw.’

She blushed then. But she didn’t miss him, not in the way Chris meant anyway.

He went on, ‘Sheer loneliness can drive you to do and say all sorts of things, Kirsty – things that, in the cold light of day, you realise that you don’t really mean. I know. I’ve lived alone since my marriage broke up. Sometimes…well, sometimes you’d do anything just for a bit of human companionship.’

She stared at him and shook her head. He thought that she loved Scott still.

‘I would never presume to have a chance with you, Kirsty, and I want you to know that.’

Kirsty’s brain felt stuffy and slow. Did he think she was some sort of deranged widow pouncing on any available man who came her way? She thought of the ill-advised date with Vincent Agnew and cringed. ‘I don’t understand. Why do you say that, Chris?’

He smiled at her kindly. ‘I’m just saying that I think you’re very vulnerable right now. And I think it would be wrong of me…of any man…to take advantage of that.’

A tiny spark of hope flickered inside Kirsty’s heart. He might believe it wrong to take advantage of a vulnerable woman, but the question was – did he
want
to?

‘You think I’m still in love with Scott, don’t you?’