Friends Like Us (11 page)

She got into her car and pulled away onto the road, winding down the window and desperately trying to focus on the journey home. She thought of Charlie giving up his job and following his dream. But I don't have a dream, she thought, I've never had a dream except trying to fulfil other people's.

Those hands… the sexiest hands she had ever seen. She wondered, apart from carrying trees, what else he could do with them. She opened the window and made herself think of other things, mundane things. But she couldn't think of anything, except Charlie.

She tuned in the radio. Born To Run came on and she sang at the top of voice.

We've gotta get out while we're young… cos tramps like us, baby we're were born to run.

She had conveniently forgotten all about Rob and, for the entire drive home, she no longer felt unsettled or unhappy, she felt
alive
.

Baby, we were born to run… tramps like us, baby we were born to run.

Communion day dawned bright and blue. Steph had spied the vans arriving at next door's since eight o'clock that morning. Totally Cheffilly had two vans, and then there was the hire crowd with the glasses and the plates. From the off-licence van there materialised boxes and boxes of wine and trays and trays of beer.

Rick came downstairs.

‘Everything all right?' she asked, trying to make an effort, hoping he was in one of his friendlier moods.

He didn't answer her, just grunted, it was as though she hadn't spoken. She felt suddenly foolish, as she often did, always on the back foot. And then Rachel joined them, they obviously had been midway through a conversation. ‘But why won't you, Dad. Hugh comes on Fridays.'

‘But Hugh doesn't work like I do,' he said. ‘Hugh's a pussy.'

‘Dad!'

‘What?' he said, laughing. ‘He is! Public relations. No wonder he can take Fridays off to watch schoolgirls play hockey.'

‘Dad, please. Come on, just once.'

Come on, Rick, urged Steph, say yes, say yes to your lovely daughter that you will go and watch her play hockey. Rachel knew Steph would jump at the chance to cheer her on, but Rachel had her eyes on the bigger prize; her father's support and approval. But he was a busy man, busy giving others his approval.

‘Sweetheart,' said Rick. ‘I would love to, there is nothing more I would like than to stand on the side of a freezing pitch on a Friday afternoon, in March, and watch you play hockey.' He was teasing her, they all knew, but it was tinged by his harsh sense of humour.

Rachel punched him on the arm. ‘Loser,' she said. Steph was always impressed at Rachel's confidence around him, something she herself had never mastered, but she was also sad about how he always got away with being the kind of dad who lets you down.

‘Listen, Rachel, I'm busy. I have clients. I get paid to be in meetings… that's how we can afford to buy you nice clothes and whatever else it is you girls are into.'

‘Dad,' said Rachel, looking at him straight in the eye. ‘Did your dad watch you play rugby or football…?'

‘Rugby,' he said quickly.

‘Did your Dad see you play
rugby
when you were at school?'

‘No,' admitted Rick.

‘And would you have wanted him to?' Rachel had him now. Steph's admiration for her only child reached its zenith.

‘Yes,' admitted Rick.

‘Well, then.'

He smiled at her and raised his hands in surrender. ‘Look, I'll see what I can do. Okay?'

Rachel shrugged. ‘Just let me know when you can squeeze me in. But remember, when you are old and wrinkly and in a care home, I may or may not choose to visit.'

He laughed and Rachel swept out of the room, point made and scored.

He turned to look at Steph. ‘I think,' he said, ‘that we may have another lawyer on our hands. Chip off the old block, if you ask me.'

Steph didn't mention Rachel's love of art history and her brilliant English essays, that she too might have a claim on her daughter. But she smiled and said nothing.

‘I just have to go and see Mam and Dad,' she said. ‘See how they are getting on.'

‘Send them my best wishes,' he said, faux-gallantly. He could, if he wanted, play the role of caring husband but most of the time he couldn't even be bothered to act.

Steph's parents lived just up the road, in the house she grew up in.

‘Mum? Dad?' She couldn't hear the radio. Usually its job was to blast out news all day long but today it was quiet. What was wrong? ‘Everything alright?' she called.

‘In here,' she heard her mother call out. ‘Kitchen.'

She walked through the hall, the little table with the letters and both sets of keys, the picture of Steph on her graduation day on the wall, Steph and Rick on their wedding day, Rachel as a baby and a picture of Steph and Rachel taken in the back garden, when Rachel was ten, their arms around each other, so easily and naturally. There they are, in the photo, as though nothing could break them, and now that bond seems to be broken.

Steph may have had her own house, shared with Rick and Rachel, but she still thought of her parents' house as her real home. It made her realize that she hadn't properly moved out and on, emotionally she had never quite flown the nest. If things had been better with Rick, then maybe she wouldn't feel like this. But her house was no safe haven and her childhood home was where she could be the old Steph, the confident relaxed Steph. She felt fulfilled and fortified by each visit.

‘In the kitchen.' Her father's voice sounded strange. She walked quickly through the house and was met by the sight of her dad, Joe, sitting on his armchair, looking pensively through the French doors at something (a blade of grass? a leaf?) in the garden, while her mother, Nuala, sat on a campstool dabbing paint on a canvas.

‘I can't talk,' he said, trying not to move his mouth. ‘I am posing and have been told not to move a muscle.'

‘Okay…' said Steph, whispering, relieved to see it was just another of her parent's many activities. ‘Genius at work.' She tiptoed dramatically to the work surface and put down some peppermint creams, some scones and some lemon curd she had bought at a school fundraiser, and a copy of the
Irish Times
.

Her mother laid down her brush; the spell was broken.

‘Hello Stephanie,' she said, smiling brightly, genuinely delighted to see her daughter. ‘How lovely to see you. Is that elevenses?'

‘Even Picasso would have breaks for tea,' said Steph, slipping back into her role as important member of this family. Here, she had status. Here, she was important. ‘Although his was probably a glass of absinthe. Nothing
pedestrian
and ordinary for him.'

‘Pedestrian? Tea?' Joe was standing up, stretching his back. ‘Heresy! Drink of the Gods, tea is. I bet Pablo only drank absinthe because he thought he had to. All part of the look, you see. That and the stripy T-shirts. He probably drank tea when no one was looking. And wore a nice plain cardigan. Not unlike this one, I would imagine.'

‘Perhaps,' said Steph, laughing. ‘You and he share a certain swagger.'

Joe nodded sagely.

‘Let's put the kettle on, so. Pablo here needs a cup of tea. As do I,' said Nuala. ‘What do you think, Stephanie? You're the art expert in the family.'

Steph coloured. ‘Was, not anymore,' she said. ‘Now… let's have a good look at it. Hmmm. Well, I think it's brilliant, Mam.' And it was. For an amateur. And if you didn't know it was meant to be an
actual
person.

‘More blue, I think,' said Nuala. ‘On the nose.' She reached out for her paintbrush to add a dab.

‘The nose?' Steph's dad, Joe pretended to be indignant. ‘My nose is many things. But blue it is not.'

‘It's art, dad,' said Steph. ‘Mam's in her blue period. And you can't come between an artist and her vision. And if Monet here thinks your nose is blue, then blue it is.'

‘Exactly,' said Monet, dabbing some blue on the canvas. ‘There. Just… like… that.' She looked up. ‘Your nose
is
blue, anyway. Have a look in the mirror.'

Joe made a sound like hmmphffftt.

‘And you've really caught the perpetually vacant stare in Dad's eyes,' said Steph.

Both her parents laughed. The two of them always found the amusing side to any situation. In fact, whenever anything bad happened, Joe would always say: ‘Right, when can we see the funny side to this?' And eventually, with most things, they would.

‘Are you finished with me, Maestro?' Joe was still stretching. ‘My legs are stiff as a board.'

‘You okay, Dad? I'll put on the kettle.' Steph stood up, pleased to have something to do.

‘No, no, I'll do it.' He waved her down. ‘You sit there and talk to your mother. It's been ages since we've seen you.' He hobbled to the kettle, exaggerating the effort.

‘It's only been a week!'

‘That's ages when you get to my ancient-ness.' He smiled at Steph. ‘One of these nice-looking scones?'

‘Definitely.'

Nuala had moved to the small sofa and patted the seat beside her, inviting Steph to sit down.

‘Now, how is our lovely granddaughter? What has she been up to?' Nuala said.

‘Um…' Steph racked her brain. ‘She's got a test… and coursework to hand in. Geography.'

‘Oh yes, I texted her to say Good Luck. And I wanted to know if she had the next series of
The Wire
. We finished series four last night. It's very good, isn't it, Joe.'

‘Very good,' he agreed. ‘Haven't a clue what's going on, but very good all the same.'

‘And I wanted to make sure she was wearing a coat. There's a terrible wind.' She took out her phone and started scrolling through. ‘It's great, the old mobile, because you can ring anytime and everyone is always in. Here… where is her last text?' Nuala peered at the screen. ‘Thanks Granny, she says. That's all. But three exclamation marks. Those things are fierce handy.'

‘Well,' said Steph. ‘At least she is talking – or texting – to someone. I feel invisible at the moment.'

‘Teenagers, that's all,' said Nuala, trying to be kind. ‘You were the same.'

‘I was? I don't think so.'

‘Remember, Joe?' Nuala called over. ‘We had a few slammed doors in this house, didn't we? The odd moody silence?'

Joe nodded. ‘I think I recall a bit of stomping around, too,' he said.

‘It's just teenagers,' said Nuala. ‘She's fine with us… children are like that with their mothers. It's just growing up. Give it two years and she'll come back to you.'

‘Two years!' But Steph couldn't shake the feeling that Rachel's antipathy was something more, related to something deeper than just hormones and the fact that it seemed aimed more at her than anyone else. ‘Anyway…' she said, changing the subject. ‘How are you two?'

‘You know us… rubbing along…' And they began to talk about their week, both completing each other's sentences, finding the same things amusing, two lives utterly in harmony.

Steph had only seen her parents argue once; it involved the neighbour's cat and their dog, John-Paul, and the fact that Nuala kept feeding the cat which drove John-Paul mad. The dog was long gone and the argument practically forgotten. However, sometimes, Joe might mention, ‘Do you remember that cat from next door?' and the two of them would laugh conspiratorially.

After John-Paul's sad demise, the two had wondered about getting a new dog. ‘We're too old.' Joe had said, resigned, when they finally came to the decision not to replace him. ‘We would slow the poor thingeen down. Dogs need young and frolicky owners…'

They may have been dog-less but they had each other and they would walk together to the cafe on Killiney Hill every morning for a cup of tea and fresh air, taking treats to surreptitiously feed to the motley crew of dogs tied up outside. Then, they would go inside and say a cheery hello to all the dog-owners, pretending they had not just been giving their dogs a feast outside, and order a cuppa and a slice of lemon drizzle. To share.

Nuala and Joe had met at an ice cream stall in Dingle, in Nuala's home county of Kerry. She had been cycling the treacherous Connor Pass with her friends when she met Joe, who was down from Dublin with friends on a hot bank holiday weekend, and they began a conversation which showed no sign of petering out. Married within three months, they set up home in Killiney, where Joe had begun work for the Civil Service and they'd been each other's best friend and husband and wife ever since.

‘So what about you? Any news?' her mother asked.

‘Not really…' Steph tried to conjure something up. ‘Um…'

‘What about Rick? Still working hard?'

‘Yes. All the time. He's never home.' She and Nuala exchanged the briefest of looks, the kind that happened every so often, and the kind that convinced Steph that Nuala understood everything: about her and Rick, how he could be physically abusive to her, about how unhappy she was, about how fake her life was.

And she couldn't swear on it, but there was something, unspoken, unarticulated in the air whenever Steph – casually – mentioned Miriam. She sensed that Nuala knew about Miriam too. She didn't know how, but mothers did have a sixth sense when it came to their daughters. Still, she longed to just blurt it out, but Nuala, being a discreet woman, always aware of the dignity of others, would never poke or prod or probe. It was Steph's secret to keep and there must be a good reason why she wasn't telling them.

Joe who was now shuffling over with the peppermint creams. ‘Is it too early for one of these?' he said, already sucking on one.

‘Definitely not,' said Nuala. ‘It's never too early.' She slipped one out of the box proffered by Joe. ‘Peppermint cream, Stephanie?'