Best of Friends (64 page)

Lizzie would never forget the pain and trauma of her own break-up—imagine if she’d had to talk about it in the newspapers? She thought back to the first time she’d really talked to Abby, the night of Sally and Steve Richardson’s party. They’d got on so well, but the trouble between Abby and her husband had been obvious even then.

Perhaps their marriage had been bad for years, Lizzie thought sadly. You never knew with other people’s relationships, did you? They could look perfectly all right on the surface and, underneath it all, be a hotbed of hate and resentment.

The reverse was also true: look at her own marriage. She had as-sumed it was all perfect, while everyone else seemed to realise it wasn’t. Lizzie jerked herself out of her bout of self-pity. Enough wal-lowing in the past, she ordered. You’ve moved on, you have a new life and you’re not going to get maudlin about your marriage, right?

But had she really moved on, she wondered.

She flicked through the article again, wincing as she read the journalist’s description of Abby: “On the television, Abby Barton is bubbly, lively and like your best friend. You’d trust her to de-junk your house and sort out your life at the same time. But, in the flesh, Abby is quieter and there’s sorrow in her eyes. She’s got the career every woman dreams of, but it hasn’t been without its price. Over the past few months, Abby and her husband, teacher Tom Barton, a deputy headmaster at an exclusive all-boys Cork school, have sepa-rated. It was nobody’s fault, Abby told the
Sunday Sentinel.
They were both devastated by the break-up. But Abby Barton is a realist and she knows that when it’s over, it’s over.”

Lizzie read on. The journalist described Abby’s new career prospects and there were some funny quotes from Abby about how hard it was to be the nation’s favourite de-junker, and still be hope-less at filing paperwork. Lizzie imagined how hard it must have been for Abby to make those jokes, when she would be feeling so miserable.

On impulse, Lizzie picked up the phone and dialled Abby’s number. If she stopped to think about it, she would lose the courage to do it. Abby must have millions of friends who’d rally round at a time like this, offering support and consolation. But Lizzie could add her voice.

Abby’s answering machine clicked in and Lizzie left a message: “Hi, Abby, it’s Lizzie Shanahan, and I was just phoning to say that if you’re feeling a bit blue after the article in the paper, well, I’m around if you fancy a cup of coffee or anything. It’s hard enough when your marriage ends without having to talk about it, you poor thing.”

A thought suddenly struck Lizzie—what if Abby thought she was phoning up only to pry? “Oh, Abby, I’m not ringing because I want to hear things, honestly,” she stammered. “I just thought I’d be there to talk if you felt like it because, like I said, I’ve been there. Bye.” Lizzie hung up, not knowing if she’d done the right thing. That was the story of her life, wasn’t it?

When they’d first moved to Dunmore, Greg and Erin had often gone for a Sunday morning stroll down the town, meandering along the streets, admiring their beautiful new home. They’d buy the Sunday papers and pop into a café to enjoy brunch. It was a habit they’d acquired when they lived in Chicago, although the scenery there had been somewhat different. But at this point in Erin’s pregnancy, despite swimming four times a week at the local pool, she no longer had the energy for long walks, so these days they drove into the town, parked the car and strolled all of fifteen yards to Molly’s Coffee Shop, which was their favourite hangout. Greg had coffee, and Erin had copious cups of tea. As they both in-dulged in big fat breakfast muffins, Greg read the papers at high speed, flicking through the supplements and discarding them on a spare chair as he went. Erin preferred to read at a more leisurely pace, really taking in articles and enjoying the turn of phrase of writers she liked.

It was Greg who gave a sudden expletive of surprise.

“There’s an interview here with Abby,” he said. “It talks about her marriage. I didn’t know she and Tom had broken up…” He scanned through the article rapidly.

“Gimme a look,” demanded Erin.

She read through the article carefully and her heart went out to Abby. Erin had suspected there was something wrong in the Barton household for a long time, but Abby had kept very quiet about it.

“I should phone her,” Erin said decisively.

“Are you sure?” Greg asked. “I didn’t think she was that close a friend of yours.”

“She wasn’t at first,” Erin admitted, “but she’s a nice woman. I like her. Besides, I bet everyone’s too nervous of going near her today and that is exactly when she needs some support.”

Greg looked at his wife admiringly. Erin had so much courage and energy. He loved her for that. Anyone else might shy away from contacting Abby today of all days, but not Erin. She understood more than most people that sometimes you needed to hear a friendly voice.

Erin was halfway through leaving the message when Abby picked up the phone.

“Oh, hello, Abby, you’re there,” said Erin in surprise.

“Yes, I’m here,” said Abby wearily. “I’m afraid to go out in case somebody spots me on the street and points and says, ‘There’s that woman from the telly who split up from her husband.’”

Erin laughed out loud, which somehow gave Abby the courage to laugh too.

“I know,” Abby groaned, “it sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all,” Erin replied. “If I were you, I’d probably feel exactly the same and be considering how to dye my hair so no one could recognise me. Fame, huh? It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

“You said it,” replied Abby with relish.

“So,” Erin went on, “do you fancy coming out today then? We could confound all the critics by doing something really public—unless you’re busy,” she added.

Abby was so touched that for a moment she could barely speak. She’d had messages of both sympathy and encouragement from a variety of people, including Selina, Nadia, Mike and, surprisingly, Steph Anderson’s mother, Lisa. But nobody had suggested actually doing anything. Apart from Lizzie Shanahan, that was.

“I’m not doing anything,” Abby began. “Jess is with Tom, but I’m sure you normally spend Sundays with Greg.”

“Greg can do without me for one afternoon,” Erin said cheerily. “He’s fed up looking at me and my big bump and having to go out at all hours to buy ice cream and corn on the cob so I can eat the two together.”

Greg, who was listening to every word, laughed at this. “Don’t forget to tell her about the midnight trips to the garage,” he inter-rupted. “The guys at the garage shop can’t understand why I don’t have an ulcer, what with all the weird food combinations I buy.”

“Did you hear that?” demanded Erin. “Honestly, men! They have it so easy. Right, Abby, where will we go and what will we do?”

Abby didn’t know. “Lizzie left a message earlier and suggested I could meet her for a coffee, so perhaps we could do that.”

“I’ve a better idea,” said Erin with enthusiasm. “Why don’t we drop round to Lizzie’s, pick her up and go out for lunch? I can be designated driver and you pair can get smashed out of your heads on cocktails and scandalise everyone in the neighbourhood. What do you think?”

“Sounds great,” said Abby, and was surprised to realise that she had tears in her eyes.

Lizzie was halfway through cooking Debra’s breakfast when Abby rang. Lizzie was thrilled when she heard the plan.

“What a brilliant idea. I’d love that, and it’ll get you out of the house, Abby. There’s nothing worse than sitting at home thinking things over on a day like today.”

“Erin’s going to pick me up in half an hour and then we’ll swing by your house,” Abby said. “Does that sound OK?”

“Great,” Lizzie replied. “That’ll give me a chance to beautify my-self.”

Debra was not impressed with this change to her Sunday morn-ing routine. She liked having a leisurely breakfast with her mother, knowing that if she wanted another fried egg or a piece of toast, Mum would hop up and make it instantly. It was like being a kid again: comforting and homely.

However, she was marginally impressed when she learned that one of the visitors was going to be Abby Barton, the same Abby whose marriage breakdown details were splashed all over the
Sunday Sentinel.

“Do you think she’ll tell us the inside story?” Debra asked with excitement.

Her mother glared at her.

“Obviously I’m not going to say that, Mum,” Debra protested. “I was just thinking, you know, seeing as how she is a friend of yours and everything, that she could tell us what really happened. I bet they always leave juicy stuff out in the papers.”

“I can’t believe you’ve just said that, Debra,” Lizzie said crossly. “We’re talking about a marriage breaking down here. You, of all people, should know how serious and distressing that is.”

Debra just shrugged. “Well, if I can get over Barry, she can get over Tom or whatever his name is, can’t she?”

Lizzie began to wonder if there was really any future for Barry and Debra. She’d hoped the row would blow over but from the cold way Debra spoke of him, it was clear that she meant the split to be for good. Lizzie was shocked that her daughter could be so callous about the man she’d been so desperate to marry. Was Debra just pretending to be hard to hide the fact that her heart was breaking or did she really feel nothing for Barry? If she didn’t feel any emotion for him, then that was the scariest thing of all.

For the first time ever, Lizzie began to wonder if she’d done something wrong in bringing up Debra. Her own mother, though loving, had been so tough on her daughters, and Lizzie had desper-ately tried not to be that sort of parent. She’d thought that encour-aging her children was the way forward. They knew they were loved and adored, and were daily told how clever and talented they were.

This method seemed to have worked with Joe, who was clever and funny, and yet still managed to be kind, despite all his wit and intelligence. But it didn’t seem to have worked so well with Debra, Lizzie reflected. In fact, the more time they spent together, the more Debra reminded Lizzie of her own mother: always ready to speak her mind, no matter how painful it was for the person listening.

“Debra, there’s a big difference between splitting up after seven-teen years and splitting up after a few months of marriage,” Lizzie said mildly. She wanted to add that it didn’t seem that Debra was exactly heartbroken by the split with Barry but she didn’t.

“I suppose …” Debra admitted, buttering a piece of toast. “I bet you that Abby will get loads of money out of her husband, won’t she? They’ve got a big house on Briar Lane too. That’ll go for millions.”

“I don’t think money is the most important thing on her mind at the moment,” said Lizzie coldly.

Thoroughly disillusioned with her daughter, she went upstairs to get ready.

“Erin, this was a brilliant choice of restaurant,” said Lizzie in admi-ration as they walked into a noisy, glamorous eaterie full of stylish people who made Lizzie feel underdressed. Despite being in the country for only six months, Erin had somehow figured out the best place in Cork to have Sunday lunch.

Lizzie’s idea of the most glamorous place you could lunch on a Sunday had been the big hotel in Dunmore where you sat amid the sedate portraits and heavy brocade curtains and ate a formal meal, talking in hushed tones while the staff looked as if they wouldn’t know which muscles to use to smile. This place looked like much more fun, with friendly waiters and waitresses zipping around at high speed and a lively hum of conversation. The fabulous seafood buffet, displayed like a work of art, looked much more exciting than the Dunmore hotel’s traditional roast beef and broccoli.

“Greg and I come here sometimes,” Erin said. “It’s fun and the food’s great. I just thought it would be good today to get out of Dunmore.”

“I just hope Greg doesn’t mind us taking you away from him today,” Abby said.

“Not at all,” replied Erin. “He has the place to himself and can watch sports on the TV all afternoon. He’s thrilled.”

“This is a gorgeous treat for a Sunday,” said Lizzie in appreciation as she looked at the menu. “I never go out for Sunday lunch normally.”

“You and Debra should come here,” Erin said carefully. “It’s sad about her and Barry but it must be nice for you having her at home nowadays.”

Lizzie didn’t reply for a moment or two. Was it nice having Debra at home these days? It certainly wasn’t how she’d expected it. Lizzie had got used to living by herself now, used to being her own boss and doing what she wanted when she wanted.

But she couldn’t admit that to anyone, not even to Erin and Abby, to whom she had been very honest on other occasions.

“Yes,” she agreed loyally. “It’s wonderful having Debra around.”

Abby was listening to the conversation but was barely taking part. She was so aware of what a public place this was and how many of the diners there must recognise her. What would they be thinking? That she was a very brazen hussy indeed to appear out for lunch, looking so carefree, on the day when her marriage break-down had been splashed all over the papers?

She’d done her best to look presentable but knew her face was white and strained, both from stress and lack of sleep.

“How’s Jess?” asked Lizzie, and then instantly knew she’d said the wrong thing because of the haunted look that came over Abby’s face. She cast around frantically to change the subject, but Erin had a better idea. Erin realised that it was important for Abby to talk about what had been happening and get it off her chest.

“I bet she’s really upset about all this newspaper stuff,” Erin said.

“She’s in bits,” admitted Abby. “Tom’s taken her away for the weekend. She’s upset over how what’s happened is affecting her fa-ther and she’ll be upset over everything that’s in the paper and, oh… I feel like such a bad mother,” she said miserably.

“You? A bad mother?” said Erin incredulously. “Don’t be ridicu-lous, Abby, you’re a great mum. This is just a blip: normal, messy life intruding into the fantasy world we all think we should be liv-ing in. You’re too hard on yourself. We probably all are. I keep thinking I’m going to be a bad mother because I’m doing some-thing wrong with the pregnancy and not eating enough calcium or I’m having too much tuna fish. But that’s what motherhood is all about, according to my sister, Kerry: sheer guilt.”