Cathy Kelly 3-book Bundle (57 page)

The sisters sat in the Speckled Trout pub at a corner table
beside a roaring fire, and looked at the menu in between catching up on the gossip of the past month.

‘Brid and I named stars after each other for Valentine’s Day,’ Flora said proudly, when the waiter had left.

‘How gorgeous!’ said Sigrid, delighted. ‘I should get TJ to name a horse for me! You can do that, you know, name horses–you just have to put up some money for the training. Not that we could, or anything, but still–’

‘That’s lovely, Flora,’ Ingrid said, conscious of that whiplash of anxiety again.

Her nearly-seventy-year-old sister was getting better Valentine’s Day gifts from her lesbian lover than she was, and the comparison was making her sad. But why? She had no time for Valentine’s Day commercialism. Never had. But thinking she’d been given something wildly romantic had stirred up the desire in her for such gifts. If David was going to send her flowers, he should have done it off his own bat.

When lunch was over, she drove to Kenny’s and parked in the store’s public car park instead of using the staff one. Without quite knowing why, she wanted to see David at work without him knowing she was coming.

She entered the shop through the front entrance and let the whole Kenny’s experience flow over her.

‘Red is gorgeous on you!’ she heard a woman in a flowery shirt sigh to her friend as they stood in front of one of the cosmetics counters. The friend was wearing a slash of shiny red on her lips and was looking aghast at her face in a small mirror.

‘No, it’s desperate!’ She began wiping it off at high speed.

‘Bright red is hard to wear,’ came the gentle voice of the woman behind the counter. ‘This beigey pink would be nice with your skin tones, and not so dramatic.’

Snippets of conversation floated around her.

‘Where’s the food hall?’

‘I’m looking for those suck-it-all-in knickers? What floor they are on?’

The scent of Kenyan coffee mingled with all kinds of perfume, and from every corner of the store, Ingrid could hear chatter, laughter and murmured
thank yous
as people were handed back their credit cards and the store’s subtle cream paper bags with the gold font that spelled Kenny’s in elegant Art Deco lettering.

She hadn’t been here for ages, she realised. It had become David’s work, the same way the television studios were her ‘work’. A place where they spent huge chunks of their lives separately. She felt guilty at that. No wonder he wasn’t talking to her about the store: she’d removed herself from it and he probably felt he couldn’t talk to her about it.

Quietly, she entered the back part of the store and made her way upstairs to David’s suite of offices.

The door to Stacey’s office was open, as was David’s. No sign of illicit meetings there.

‘Ingrid,’ said Stacey delightedly. ‘How lovely to see you. I was just making coffee for David, would you like some?’

‘No thanks,’ said Ingrid, smiling and walking into her husband’s office. He was at the big table where he sometimes had meetings and there were lots of papers spread out on the polished walnut.

‘Ingrid,’ he said, pleased, ‘what brings you here? Isn’t it your day for lunch with Flora and Sigrid?’

He put out his arms to give her a kiss, and Ingrid felt some of her apprehension melt.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I thought I’d drop in on the way back. I haven’t been here in ages.’

‘Stacey’s making coffee,’ he added, going back to his papers.

‘I wanted to thank you for the flowers,’ Ingrid went on. ‘The roses. I’ve heard the flowers were Claudia’s idea,’ she said evenly.

‘Were they nice?’ David asked absently, head still bent over his paperwork.

Ingrid would have growled if she’d been able to, so she said nothing. The silence worked.

David’s head shot up and he looked at her inquisitively. ‘You all right?’

‘No,’ she snapped, keeping her voice low, conscious of the open door. ‘I am not all right. I am your wife and today you sent flowers to my office at the behest of your sparky little girl Friday, Claudia. So no, I am not all right. I am very much not all right.’

Nobody could ever call David stupid. He got it instantly.

‘This is about Claudia?’ he asked. ‘Claudia who works here?’

His look of absolute astonishment was all the evidence Ingrid needed. Nobody could fake astonishment with such utter truth. And Ingrid had seen plenty of people try it in her years as an interviewer. The faintest gleam of bemusement appeared on his face.

‘You’re worried about Claudia,’ he said and she could have sworn he looked relieved, as if there was something else she should be worried about.

The frisson of fear inside her diminished and she felt guilty at having wronged him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I got the wrong end of the stick.’

‘You did,’ he agreed, but he didn’t laugh with her or even hug her for thinking such a thing. ‘Claudia and Lena are so thrilled with the whole “last-minute gift” idea and yesterday Claudia came up with this plan to share how wonderfully it was going, that’s all.’

‘They were lovely flowers,’ Ingrid conceded.

Something was still wrong. David hadn’t said ‘How could you think such a thing?’ or hugged her.

‘What’s wrong? Is it the business? Please tell me, David. Tell me what’s wrong.’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Ingrid. Please don’t interrogate me, I don’t need that.’

She never interrogated him.

‘But you’re worried, I can tell. Don’t lock me out.’

He rubbed his eyes as if getting grit out of them. ‘Money’s
always a problem, especially in the credit crunch, but we’ll manage, we always do. Now, I need to finish this quickly, love. We can go to the café and have coffee then, if you’d like? I just need another half an hour.’

Ingrid shook her head. ‘I have to go back to work. I was going to make us fish pie this evening?’

His face lit up. ‘Great.’

Ingrid wandered round the store for half an hour before she left. She still felt guilty for not having been there lately, and she couldn’t help but want to set eyes on Claudia, just to see.

Kenny’s was a real jewel, she realised, walking through the home department with its carefully chosen pieces. The shop couldn’t compete with the big department stores in the area, so they’d specialised in things you simply couldn’t get elsewhere. There was unusual china, the gorgeous pottery with indigo glazes, wooden lamps with bases of carved flowers, Tiffany lamps held up by brass fairies, and the Bluestone Tapestries that Ingrid adored, even though they were worlds away from the sort of decor she normally liked.

A woman with a baby in a buggy stood in front of the tapestries, fingering a large mermaid one with longing. Ingrid could remember when Molly and Ethan had been babies, and she’d had so little time to meander around shops. She felt a strange yearning to have that time back again, and she’d do it differently. Make more time to meander, like this woman with her baby.

But she’d always been so busy, trying to fit work and housework into a day that was still only twenty-four hours long.

The woman with the baby turned and caught Ingrid’s eye.

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ she sighed, meaning the tapestry. ‘But a bit expensive for me.’

‘I love them too,’ Ingrid agreed. ‘I’ve actually got one in my hall.’

‘Lucky you,’ said the woman.

Yes, thought Ingrid, lucky me.

Life is what happens when you’re making other plans.

Lizzie’s wedding morning was bitterly cold. Unusually low temperatures for the time of year, the radio weather forecaster said chirpily as Natalie and Molly sat beside the range in Natalie’s parents’ farmhouse.

Natalie was waiting for her stepmother’s porridge, which was slowly cooking on the range and tasted very different from anything she ever heated in a microwave in her flat.

Molly was foolishly having toasted home-made bread: foolish because a trio of dogs sat at her feet, making hungry, abandoned expressions and drooling.

‘I did tell you,’ Natalie said. ‘They think it’s their toast, not yours.’

‘They’re sweet,’ said Molly, who was a sucker for big brown eyes.

The back door opened and both girls could feel icy cold rush into the kitchen.

It was Des, Natalie’s dad, and even he was rubbing his hands together with cold.

‘This cold would take the balls off a brass monkey. I hope
Lizzie’s wearing a blanket today,’ he said, going to the range and holding his hands over it.

‘Dad, you know how stubborn Lizzie is,’ Natalie said. ‘This is her Valentine’s fairytale and she’s refused all suggestions about wraps and fake-fur throws. She’s going to look like a princess, no matter how cold.’

‘Being covered in goosepimples isn’t going to look very nice in the photos,’ pointed out Molly mildly. She was wearing a vintage woollen dress, a coat and a pashmina to the church, and was already wondering if that was enough.

‘You try telling Lizzie that,’ Natalie said.

‘A bit of a mule, is our Lizzie,’ grinned Des, winking at Molly to show he agreed with her.

Molly loved Natalie’s dad, and she loved going to visit Natalie’s home.

Part of the charm was that it was so very different from her parents’ elegant house with its perfectly designed garden maintained by a gardener who came once a week.

Any grass around Woodenbridge Farm was nibbled low by a pet ram called Sydney who maintained decent lawn standards and ran to greet visitors when they got out of their cars. Sydney had been hand-reared indoors with milk from a bottle with a baby’s teat on it, until he got too big. As a result he thought he was a dog.

The house itself was a small and sturdy stone farmhouse, Natalie’s father’s family home for generations. It was heated solely by open fires and the giant range in the kitchen, with a few gas heaters here and there for people prone to cold.

Staying overnight in winter had made Molly finally realise why Natalie never turned the gas heating on in their flat. Natalie was used to the cold.

‘Here, you put clothes on to go to bed,’ explained Natalie cheerfully. ‘When it’s really cold, you have to bring two hot-water bottles with you, or else let the dogs lie on the bed. I
always feel that people who don’t like dogs on the bed have never lived somewhere without central heating.’

All the floors were stone or wood and nobody minded when the three dogs, four cats and the odd chicken wandered in and out, leaving fur or feathers in their wake. The two old couches and faded threadbare rug in the snug living room were originals and not expensive copies trying to give off a country vibe. This was a working farm, with a small herd of beef cattle grown for the Italian market, and no money for any luxuries.

The family ate their own vegetables and the eggs that their hens laid.

The relaxed atmosphere was very beguiling. Bess, Natalie’s stepmum, presided over the house with the easygoing charm of a den mother minding a campful of scouts. She even looked like a den mother: a trim figure always dressed in jeans and long hand-knitted sweaters, her greying hair cut sensibly short as if any messing around with hairdryers or curling tongs was a nuisance she didn’t have time for.

There was always home-made soup or some cold pie in the fridge for hungry people. Bess made scones first thing every morning, and yet she never pushed her food on anyone. She prepared it, then she went off doing things; if people wanted food, they could help themselves to it. As long as they tidied up afterwards, all was well. There was no money for a housekeeper here: Bess did most of the housework and she worked part-time too as a seamstress.

Natalie’s brothers, Ted and Joe–a strapping pair of ‘Irish twins’, so called because they were born less than a year apart–clearly thrived in this atmosphere. Unlike most lads of eighteen and nineteen, they could both cook and were good at ironing. Molly knew her mother would approve. Ingrid hated men who looked helplessly at saucepans when they could reach level ten on Temple of Doom.

When the two girls had arrived the night before, the family
had shared a lively dinner. This morning, Natalie had to head off to Lizzie’s house for bridesmaid’s duties. Molly was looking forward to spending the morning going for a long walk around the farm, and perhaps up into the surrounding hills, with some of the Flynns’ tribe of dogs. Sparkles, a wire-haired skinny dog with a limp, had taken a shine to Molly and had been following her around the house adoringly. Despite not being the prettiest dog ever, Sparkles had the most beautiful eyes: soft toffee orbs that stared up at Molly beseechingly until she hauled him on to her lap for a cuddle.

They were all due at the church at three and although Molly wasn’t generally a fan of weddings–they seemed to go on
for ever
–she didn’t mind this one because she was going to be sitting with the rest of Natalie’s family.

‘Right, I’m off,’ said Natalie, hugging her father goodbye. ‘Off to the O’Sheas’ to see if they’ve all killed each other yet.’

‘Is that one of the rituals of modern weddings?’ her father teased.

‘It will be in Lizzie’s house,’ Natalie said.

She found a parking space in the cul-de-sac where Lizzie’s family lived, and by the time she’d been let into the semi-detached house, she knew she’d been on the money about the fight. As predicted, the O’Shea household was in crisis. There were no teabags or milk, and none of the neighbours squashed into the tiny kitchen for a pre-wedding party seemed inclined to leave the cosiness to buy any. The hairdresser had started work an hour ago and was still only putting the finishing touches to Lizzie’s mother’s hair, which meant she was seriously behind schedule. And the make-up artist hadn’t arrived yet.

‘Will you phone her?’ gasped Lizzie when Natalie came in. Still wearing her fluffy dressing gown, with her hair wet and her face bare, she looked very unlike a fairytale bride.

The make-up lady’s phone went unanswered and Natalie left a polite message.

Half an hour late, not good but not fatal yet.

‘I’ll nip down to the shop to get milk and tea,’ Natalie said.

‘Jesus, no!’ shrieked Lizzie. ‘Get the hairdresser away from my mother. She’s hogging her. It’s my day, not hers. I need to be done now. They can do without bloody tea. There’s a giant bottle of Bailey’s in the kitchen, they can have that in coffee and feck the milk.’

Nearly an hour later, the hairdresser was nailing giant heated rollers into Lizzie’s hair to moans of ‘Ouch, that hurt!’

Anna, who was bridesmaid number two, had turned up and she and Natalie had been tag-phoning the make-up lady every ten minutes. The woman hadn’t replied to either messages or texts.

‘She’s obviously not coming,’ Anna said. ‘We’ll never get anyone at such short notice. What’ll we do?’

‘Don ‘t look at me. You know I’m hopeless with make-up,’ Natalie said.

‘I can do mine, but I’ve never done anyone else’s,’ said Anna.

‘Baileys and coffee anyone?’ roared the mother of the bride from downstairs.

Natalie had a brainwave.

‘Charlie from Kenny’s–she runs the Organic Belle department–she might be able to lend us someone for an hour. She’s lovely, she’d help out, I know.’

Charlie recognised an emergency when she heard one.

‘It’s quiet enough this morning,’ she said. ‘I can’t lend you anyone, but if I take an early lunch, I’ll pop round and do it myself. Will an hour and a half be long enough?’

‘You’re an angel!’ said Natalie gratefully. An hour and a half would get Lizzie and her mother done. Everyone else could fend for themselves.

She went into the bedroom to tell Lizzie the good news and was waylaid by bridesmaid number three, Steve’s sister,
Shazza, who’d insisted on being a bridesmaid, and having got her wish had been doing her level best to take over. ‘I think we should all put our hair up,’ she said.

‘What?’ Natalie asked, bewildered.

‘Up, it’s more flattering,’ said Shazza, holding her own blonde hair up to demonstrate.

Shazza had gone against Lizzie’s dictat that spray tans would look ridiculous at a February wedding and was the rich brown colour of an Italian handbag. Everyone else’s skin was pure Irish blue.

One hand holding up her hair, Shazza did a twirl in front of Lizzie. ‘See? Much nicer with the dresses.’

The bridesmaids’ dresses were pale baby pink, a colour that did precisely nothing for Natalie but suited Shazza perfectly.

‘I hate my hair up,’ Natalie said. ‘And we agreed that we’d have soft curls…’

‘No, you’re right, Shaz,’ said Lizzie traitorously. ‘Up would be fabulous. Much more fairytale. Mum,’ she called out. ‘Could I have another Bailey’s? I’m parched.’

‘She’s only trying to keep the peace,’ Anna whispered to Natalie, seeing her friend’s furious face. ‘If she doesn’t agree with Shaz, she’ll rush round to Steve and whine about how his bride-to-be is being mean to her.’

‘But we’re her best friends since we were five,’ hissed Natalie back.

Anna responded with a shrug of the shoulders and her weddings-are-hell look.

Natalie was shaking with cold and her skull ached from having her hair screwed on to her head with a million hair clips by the time she finally met up with her family and Molly again. The official pictures after the wedding ceremony had taken forever and most of them had been staged outside in the
spectacular and scenic gardens of the elegant Mount Ardagh Hotel,
which actually meant a bit of grass behind the hotel. Here
there was a peeling pergola with flowers twirling round it and a small pond that was no longer viable for actual fish and home to lots of ferny-type things that looked good in photos but were remarkably smelly in real life.

‘I promise,’ whispered Molly, ‘that if I ever get married, it’ll be in the summer and I will let you pick your own dress.’

‘Never get married,’ Natalie whispered back, shivering. ‘Please get me something hot to drink. I am frozen.’

Bess handed her a woollen wrap in a dark crimson that immediately lifted Natalie’s complexion.

‘Lizzie should have let you each wear a colour that suited you,’ Bess said, and Natalie felt guilty at silently agreeing with her.

Even her little brother Joe, who didn’t notice female attire unless it was on a girl he fancied, nodded in sympathy at Natalie’s outfit.

‘The hair is brutal,’ he said. ‘Looks like it hurts.’

‘It does,’ Natalie informed him. ‘But I’ve got to keep it up for ages.’

‘Joe only likes long, flowing hair,’ Ted smirked.

Joe thumped him.

‘Whose long, flowing hair would that be?’ asked their father, grinning.

‘Nobody.’ Joe thumped Ted again for luck.

‘Joe’ll be getting married next,’ Ted said, getting out of his brother’s reach. ‘You’ll have to do bridesmaid again, Nat.’

Everyone smiled and Bess ruffled Joe’s gelled hair affectionately.

‘Before I buy the mother-of-the-bride outfit, can you tell us who this future member of the family is?’ she asked.

Natalie felt a stab of envy. Why? She couldn’t understand what would make her feel that way. It was like waking up after a dream and trying to catch the memory of it again, feeling it flitting away. Something to do with Joe and Bess and her little brother getting married one day.

‘Nobody,’ said Joe crossly. ‘Bigmouth here ought to watch it, or he’ll get another belt.’

Sitting at the top table was like being an international peacekeeper, Natalie thought. To cope with the combined masses of the O’Shea and Devine clans, the arrangement had turned into a long table with two big round tables stuck on at each end to appease the various great aunts, grannys and uncles who’d have been aggrieved to be seated somewhere less important. Sitting on the cusp of the long table and one of the round ones, Natalie found she was surrounded by people with a stack of freshly remembered resentments waiting to be aired.

The salmon was not as nice as the salmon at a previous wedding, one great uncle muttered.

‘I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t asked to
that
wedding,’ flashed back a gimlet-eyed cousin.

‘Who are your people?’ demanded Natalie’s neighbour, a misleadingly sweet-faced little old lady, who’d come all the way from Kinsale for today and had taken against the hotel because there was no kettle or tea-making facilities in her room.

Natalie had heard the whole story twice already.

‘They’re over there,’ she said now, looking wistfully at a distant table where her family and Molly appeared to be having fun.

The Kinsale lady peered at them. ‘Who’s that girl wearing the strange outfit with the fandangle on the shoulder?’

Natalie hid a smile. Molly was very proud of her vintage dress, a grey woollen 1950s creation with a flared skirt which she’d accessorised with a patent belt and a large white corsage à la Carrie in
Sex and the City,
undoubtedly the fandangle Mrs Kinsale was referring to.

‘One of my best friends,’ she replied.

‘I thought Lizzie was your best friend?’

Natalie’s smile was forced this time. ‘Oh, she’s one of them too.’

The introduction of bottles of cava for the speeches cheered up most of the grumpier people and Natalie relaxed.

Even the crossness emanating from the tables of relatives hadn’t dimmed Steve’s love for Lizzie, and Natalie found herself sighing at his speech, when he called Lizzie ‘my best, my always.’

‘Lovely,’ said Mrs Kinsale, taking a good gulp of her cava before holding her glass up for a refill.

Natalie wasn’t listening, she was watching Lizzie and her mother embracing, all the morning with its arguments about who got the longer go of the hairdresser forgotten. That was the dream she hadn’t been able to touch, Natalie realised. Bess and Joe, mother and son. Lizzie and her mother. The strongest bond in the world.