The Honey Queen (29 page)

Liz was conscious that this would be only the second time that her parents had dined at the Byrnes’. Their first visit, when the engagement had been announced, had not been a wild success. Their second looked set to be even worse. Thus far, Miranda had been so preoccupied with the wedding arrangements that she hadn’t made the connection between Brian’s sister and the Dublin Ponzi scheme that was splashed all over the papers. There was no telling what she might come out with when she realized one of her daughter’s prospective bridesmaids was under investigation by the fraud squad.

‘And, Mum, about Thursday …’ said Liz. ‘Please be nice to Opal. She’s always been so good to me, and she has a lot on her mind at the moment.’

Liz prayed that her mother would for once do this. The Meredith saga had been discussed at length between her and Brian and they both knew how upset Opal and Ned were about it all.

‘How could Meredith not have known what they were up to?’ Liz had wanted to know.

Brian had shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I think she looked up to the Alexanders so much that she would have believed any old rubbish they told her.’

‘My mother still hasn’t put two and two together and realized the stuff in the papers is about your sister. She’ll go into orbit,’ Liz said gloomily.

‘I hope she doesn’t blast off before Thursday night,’ Brian had joked.

‘Of course I’ll be nice to Opal,’ announced Miranda loftily now. ‘I’m nice to everyone.’

‘Sure, Mum,’ said Liz, finally plonking her basket of groceries on the conveyor belt. ‘I’m at the checkout, I have to go.’

‘Fine,’ said Miranda smartly.

The following morning Miranda looked at her lists with distaste. She had lots of lists in coloured folders. There was one for the flowers. Flowers were proving to be remarkably difficult. The florist Elizabeth had chosen didn’t seem to understand her place at all, spoke to Miranda as if she were some sort of artist, when she was nothing of the sort. Just a girl who got up early enough to buy flowers in the market. Anyone could do that.

So far the only bit of the wedding that was going to plan were the invitations, and nobody apart from her close friends from bridge had commented on how wonderful they were. Nobody had a clue how much they cost, certainly not Noel.

They’d been many times more expensive than she’d let on to her husband, but they were one of those important details that you daren’t overlook if you wanted the thing to be a success. This was setting up your stall, showing people what class of wedding it was going to be and she was determined that Elizabeth’s was going to be the most classy wedding Redstone had seen in years.

In fact, it was about time she had a word with Opal Byrne and put her right on a few things. Better to get the whole thing out into the open before they went to dinner there, in that poky little council house.

People like Opal simply didn’t know the correct way to behave.

Miranda marched down the parquet hall in The Borough, the imposing mock Georgian mansion where she and Noel had lived for the last ten years.

Manuela, the cleaner, had the front door open and was trying to scrub the granite step. The granite had been a wonderful idea, but it was proving very difficult to keep it clean. Miranda had given Manuela several different products to try, but so far none of them had worked. Finally, she had decided that a scrubbing brush and old-fashioned elbow grease would do the trick.

‘Is it working, Manuela?’ Miranda enquired.

Manuela did not look up at her employer. ‘I cannot see,’ she said. ‘It is wet so it still looks dirty. We will see when it dries.’

‘Hmmm.’ Not entirely satisfied with this answer, Miranda picked up the cordless phone from the hall and stalked into the living room. She loved this room, which was a symphony in creams and pale blues, two of her favourite colours. One of the two outfits she’d bought for the wedding was this exact pale blue. The existence of a second outfit was another of those details she’d neglected to mention to Noel. Only Elizabeth knew, because they’d gone to London together to shop for dresses. She needed to find out what Opal was wearing first. Nobody knew. Opal hadn’t even phoned her to discuss that. She probably didn’t understand that part of the wedding etiquette either. It really made Miranda seethe.

Opal herself answered on the fifth ring.

‘Hello,’ she said. She sounded so distracted that Miranda, who rarely picked up on other people’s moods, noticed.

‘Opal, it’s Miranda, Elizabeth’s mother.’

‘Oh,’ said Opal, the lack of excitement in her tone even more apparent. ‘How are you, Miranda?’ she said. ‘Is it about Thursday? You can still come, can’t you?’

‘I’m fine and of course we’ll be there,’ said Miranda sharply. ‘I’m telephoning about a few things. What did you think of the invitations? Did you like the gold envelopes? Most of my friends phoned as soon as they arrived to tell me how beautiful they are. They came from New York, you know.’

‘They’re lovely,’ said Opal, wondering how it was that she’d been so upset to find them on the mat a month or so ago. It was hard to imagine a time when something so silly mattered. What really mattered was Meredith, who was currently upstairs in her bedroom with the door shut. She spent much of her time up there. Not coming out. Today, there had been no noise, no music, no telephone calls. Nothing. Occasionally, Opal went up and listened closely at the door just to hear some movement so she’d know Meredith was OK. She’d knocked once or twice to ask, ‘Would you like some tea, darling?’ But each time Meredith had muttered, ‘No thanks.’

‘The envelopes were lovely, really pretty,’ she told Miranda.

It was a struggle to summon the energy to say that much, but from Miranda’s impatient sigh she detected that it wasn’t enough. ‘Well done,’ she tried. ‘You’re doing it all so marvellously and I know I’m doing nothing, but you’re very good at organizing; Liz always says so.’

This must have been the right thing to say, for she could almost hear Miranda preen.

‘Well, it is one of my strengths,’ she began, then she stopped. She didn’t want Opal to think the Byrnes could sit back whilst the bride’s mother did everything. Well, she did – but she wanted them to appreciate her cultured approach.
That’s
what she wanted. ‘We need an agenda for tomorrow night, Opal. There’s such a lot to discuss, as I’m sure you’re aware. There’s the rehearsal dinner and someone needs to check if people have booked their hotels and if they need any help this end. We’ve people coming from the States and the UK, you know. And Bahrain. Places Noel and I have visited on our travels, people we—’

‘Right,’ said Opal. ‘We can talk about all that on Thursday.’ Opal could hear a stirring upstairs, the sound of Meredith’s door opening and footsteps on the landing. Maybe she was going to the bathroom. Opal should race up and grab her, make sure she was all right. She hardly noticed what Miranda was saying. Something or other about dresses and colour-coordination and how it would be a mistake to add any more bridesmaids: ‘Chloe’s dress is so divine, there would be no point in having anyone else being a bridesmaid if their dress was different, would it?’

‘No,’ said Opal, not listening at all. All she could think about was Meredith wandering around the house like a wraith, barely eating, never going out.

Opal would do anything,
anything
to take away the pain from Meredith’s face. To make it all go away. But she couldn’t.

Miranda was still talking and Opal had had enough.

‘Listen, Miranda, I have to go. The invitations were very nice and everything. See you on Thursday,’ and she put the phone down quickly.

At the other end of the line, Miranda glared at the dead phone. The cheek! How dare Opal Byrne cut her off in the middle of a sentence! Wait until she told Elizabeth. It was plain rude.

On Thursday, in the house next door to Opal’s, Molly was having a bad day. It was the radio news. She’d heard different versions of the news and it had all been about death. People were dropping like flies: a Hollywood star she’d swooned over when she was a girl had died at the age of eighty-four after a brief illness. Molly had been shocked and heartbroken. Shocked at the discovery that he was eighty-four. Old, for goodness’ sake. She’d thought he was still swaggering round film sets setting hearts aflame when in fact, he’d been in a nursing home.

The next news bulletin solemnly announced the death of a local politician she’d once liked because he’d called at the door during an election and had been so nice.

‘They’re all nice at election time,’ her dear departed husband, Joe, had pointed out.

‘No.’ Molly had been adamant. ‘He cared about the problem with the drains, I’m telling you.’

Finally, a newspaper columnist she’d adored because he wrote just the way Molly thought had died unexpectedly.

Molly was wary of expressing particularly wild views on certain topics because people tended not to appreciate them, but this man had said the maddest things and got away with it. In fact, he’d been paid for it and was always on the television driving people demented and making the phone lines hop. It was one of life’s great mysteries that some people got paid for something that another person might be reprimanded for saying.

Molly turned off the radio and decided she’d drop in and see Opal, who would surely be grateful of a visit, what with things being so difficult now that Meredith had come home on account of
the money scandal.
Ned and Opal got all white-faced and sad at the slightest mention of that.

She looked out of her kitchen window and saw that Ned was in the garden cutting flowers. He kept the place spick and span, Molly thought fondly. But the Byrnes’ garden wasn’t all formal with a bit of lawn and straight lines of blooms like a lot of them round here. Ned had an eye for clusters of things. He waved hello as Molly swung herself over the wall and went to his back door.

Molly liked the old ways: she’d go to the kitchen door during the day but never in the evening. Evenings were for family. No, she rang the bell at the front, then.

Opal was standing at the cooker, browning onions and floury bits of chicken in her big old frying pan.

‘Hello, Opal, that smells delicious. I should keep out of here when you’re cooking – my Weight Watchers diet hasn’t a hope. What are you making?’

Molly sat down at the table without waiting to be asked.

‘Chicken casserole. Good afternoon, Molly,’ said Opal, with a worn smile. ‘Will I put on the kettle? Are you staying for tea?’

‘Ah no, you’re busy cooking the dinner and I’ve just had a cup, but, oh, perhaps I might have a drop of tea while I’m here,’ said Molly, all in the one breath.

‘Actually, will you fill the kettle then,’ Opal asked. ‘If I leave this, it’ll be sure to burn and this is the last batch. I hate browning things.’

Then she felt guilty because Molly had lived on her own since Joe died and when Molly cooked it was only to reheat one of those microwaveable low-calorie meals. Molly never needed to brown great batches of anything any more.

‘Liz’s parents are coming again tonight,’ she sighed. ‘They go to all the fancy restaurants, Brian tells me. If it has a Michelin star or any sort of recommendation, they’re off like a shot. Miranda has some experience in the restaurant trade, apparently and she likes to keep up with the fashion.’

Opal looked harassed, which was unlike her. She had already spent hours ironing napkins, and laying the dining-room table. Ned was providing flowers for the table and had promised to polish the glasses.

Molly had met Liz’s mother when the Flanagans came for the engagement announcement, and had been silenced by Miranda’s sheer rudeness.

Now, she decided that Opal needed a bit of moral support.

‘You’re a fabulous cook, Opal Byrne, and don’t worry for a moment,’ Molly said.

It was no lie: Opal was an inspirational cook, all home taught and with a bit of the magic of the instinctive chef who could add a pinch of this and a spoon of that to bring the whole dish together.

‘Besides, if she prefers fancy restaurants to dinner at her future son-in-law’s family home, then she ought to have her head examined,’ joked Molly.

‘I don’t want to be disloyal to Brian or to Liz, whom we love,’ said Opal slowly, ‘but I don’t think Miranda entirely approves of us as a family. And now with all this problem over Meredith – I just can’t take any more hassle. She rang yesterday, demanding to know why I hadn’t phoned about her gold invitations. I know it’s uncharitable of me, Molly,’ said Opal crossly, ‘but I cannot bring myself to like that woman.’

After that, there was no way Molly was leaving.

‘I’ll stay and keep you company,’ she said, and Opal hadn’t the heart to send her away.

It was nice to have someone to talk to as she cooked, even if Molly did most of the talking.

Molly was still there at seven o’clock when Brian and Liz arrived with the Flanagans. Noel, Liz’s father, was fine, Molly decided. He was a big man who liked his pint, judging from the belly on him, and who smiled at everyone because he liked a quiet life.

As for Miranda, it was easy to see where Liz had got her looks. Miranda had the same sheeny coppery hair and almond-shaped eyes. But while her daughter was a smaller, curvier version with a face permanently crinkled up with a big smile, Mrs Flanagan was tall and bony, with deep frown lines in her forehead. She glared at Molly as if to say, What on earth is someone like you doing here? When Miranda was seated in the sitting room, an act which required her to sweep imaginary crumbs off the chair, and had graciously said she might drink a small gin and tonic, Opal escaped to the kitchen to check on dinner.

Molly followed her, saying loudly to the guests, ‘I must be off, enjoy your dinner.’

As soon as the two of them were alone in the kitchen, she said to Opal, ‘I’ve just had a thought, isn’t she the image of your woman from the corner house on the avenue? Lots of lipstick, nose in the air and a face as hard as a brick.’

Opal clamped her hand over her mouth to stop herself laughing out loud.

‘Molly, you’re dreadful. She might hear.’