Friends Like Us (12 page)

‘I will, why not?'

‘I'm going again.' Joe slipped another into his mouth. ‘Cholesterol be damned. This is living on the wild side, hey?'

After her second cup of tea, it was nearly time to go and start getting ready for the Communion so she said goodbye, wishing she could stay with them, not having to face her real life. She stood up, feeling her visit was all too brief and as she nosed her car down the hill back into Dalkey, she was gripped with her usual anxiety, the familiar tightening in her belly and by the time she was putting her own key in the lock, her stomach was as knotty as Miss Havisham's hair.

At two thirty, once they had knocked on Miriam and Hugh's front door, Steph and Rick and Rachel all immediately went their separate ways; Rick to the kitchen to grab a beer before joining the other guys in the sitting room where a rugby match was blaring, Rachel upstairs with Aoife, Steph hovering in the hall, wondering what to do, who to latch onto?

She spotted Miriam and for the splittest of seconds they looked at each other, before Miriam smiled at her and gave an annoying little wave, as though they were great pals. Which, of course, they were, weren't they?

Rick walked past Miriam, bottle of beer in his hand, just about to duck in to the TV room. ‘Ricky!' said Miriam, using her annoying name for him. ‘Aren't you going to say hello?'

He kissed her on the cheek, in a friendly, neighbourly way, but then whispered something in her ear which made Miriam laugh and slap him, flirtatiously. And she looked up again at Steph, and this time Steph looked away, shame suffusing her. She realised that being here, she couldn't hide behind the façade of a marriage. There was no pretending anymore.

Wine, she thought. Where's the bloody wine?

She found it in the kitchen and swiftly grabbed a glass, filled it to almost teetering, and gulped a big, long drink, allowing the alcohol to be quickly absorbed by every corpuscle in her body. Finally she felt able to face this awful party.

Sorcha, the Communion girl, was running through the house closely followed by a troupe of shrieking friends. Everywhere, adults were helping themselves to brimming glasses of white wine or fishing for cans in a barrel.

A waiter proffered a prawn-thing. Steph took two and a napkin, with her wine glass in the other hand, she munched miserably, sipping her wine and feeling utterly out of place.

Two women joined her, the charity case. ‘We were just remarking on your beautiful scarf,' one said kindly. ‘Cashmere?'

‘Yes, yes, it is.' It was her stolen one.

‘There's nothing quite like it, is there?' said the other one, smiling.

‘No. No there isn't,' said Steph. She introduced herself, holding out her hand and desperately changing the subject.

‘I'm Gillian and this is Valerie. We're friends of Miriam's from Pilates.'

‘I'm her neighbour. That way.' Steph nodded her head in the direction of her house. She thought of her house, only yards away, and how quiet it would be now, and peaceful. She wished she was there, on her own, drinking tea and listening to a play on the radio. She took another sip of wine. The small talk continued: schools, houses, encounters with Bono. The usual chit-chat.

Valerie was talking about her daughter who, now she was sixteen, had disappeared into a whirlwind of school, socializing and sport.

Steph suddenly caught sight of Rachel, in a gang of girls, smiling and laughing. She caught Rachel's eye and waved but Rachel looked away. She loved being a mother, but it just wasn't as simple as it used to be.

‘Do you miss her?' Steph wondered. ‘You know, when they're not little girls anymore?'

‘Miss her? God no, she's off doing her own thing. I was exactly the same. They barely need us now – we're just cash machines. And the twins are worse.' She turned to Steph.

‘How many do you have?'

‘Just the one.'

‘Well, that makes it much easier.'

‘Yes, yes I suppose it does,' Steph agreed mechanically. She and Rick never did have a second child. By the time Rachel was born and Steph might have been ready for another, they didn't try. Steph knew she didn't want another with Rick. He was too unpredictable. And he scared her.

But beautiful Rachel was enough for her. She loved it just being the two of them, she and Rachel, mother and daughter. There was something so special in just having one. She remembered so vividly dropping Rachel off to junior infants all those years ago. And, as they neared the playground, Steph's stomach would begin to flutter, at the thought she and Rachel were going to have to leave each other. For three hours. It sounded so silly now, but they were so bonded, she couldn't imagine them having separate lives.

And neither could Rachel, then. She would sob so hard that Steph would have to physically pass her over to the teacher and walk away. She remembered that feeling inside, like she had just given up her heart.

But Rachel's journey to independence had begun, and one day, Rachel turned her face to Steph's, tiny rosebud lips pursed, and kissed her goodbye. And that was it. No tears, no hanging on. Sometimes, Steph would give anything to be back in that playground for one moment, for one second, to feel those little lips on hers again.

She spent the party talking to people, some of them she knew, others for the first time. Later, at about nine, she was just wondering if she could leave when Rachel placed herself in front of her.

‘I'm going to stay here tonight.'

‘Did Miriam say it was okay?'

‘Yeah, 'course.'

‘Who's staying over?'

‘Just me. Aoife and I are going to watch a film and get a pizza.'

‘Okay. I'll just check with Miriam.'

‘SHE SAID IT WAS FINE OR DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?' Rachel glared at Steph and a few people glanced over. Even above the noise of the party, they could hear her tone of voice. Steph let it go. She would just talk to Miriam herself.

‘Okay, sweetheart,' said Steph. She longed to smooth her hair back but feared a swiped hand and a scowlier scowl.

‘Mum, your eyes are funny. I think you've had too much to drink,' said Rachel, before disappearing back into the giggling mass of teenage girls and away from the room. There was no defence and Steph just had to pretend to laugh it off in front of the other guests when all she wanted was to smooth everything, make she and Rachel close again.

She went into the living room where the rugby match was now over and someone had put on music, it was Madness, ‘Welcome to the House of Fun'. Steph laughed inwardly at the ironic choice of music. Hugh was there, talking and laughing with friends.

‘Where's Miriam?' she asked him.

‘Try outside,' he said. ‘I think she said she was going for a smoke.'

‘Thanks.'

‘You alright?' he asked. ‘Got everything? Drink, food?'

‘Everything's perfect, Hugh. Thanks,' she said. ‘Great party.'

She headed outside. It was dusk. The evening was cool. The doors of the house were all open and the cat dashed past her, racing from one adventure to another.

She heard sounds coming from around the back of the garage, hidden by a trellis of jasmine. The smokers? She walked towards them. But it wasn't anyone smoking but instead a couple in the throes of drunken love-making. Kissing wildly, passionately, deeply, desperately. The man with his hands up the woman's skirt, his trousers undone, his mouth covering hers. Her hair was out of place, the shoes, those beautiful, ridiculously expensive shoes, sinking into the mud. Her skirt pushed right up to her thighs, his groin thrust into hers.

Rick and Miriam.

Steph stood there, frozen in the late-spring air. She watched while her husband and neighbour consumed each other, grabbing and grinding, panting and pawing.

She staggered backwards in the dark, accidentally kicking over a pot of dead geraniums. Hiding behind the trellis, her heart desperately trying to escape from her chest.

The lovers had stopped what they were doing and were now absolutely silent.

She heard Rick's voice say, ‘It's nothing,' in that posh drawl of his. ‘As you were.'

And they both laughed and the horrible sounds started up again. Steph crept away, as though she was the guilty one, as though she had something to hide.

She found the gap in the hedge between the two houses and walked across her lawn, her own heels sinking into the grass, like wading through jelly. Once inside, the sounds of music and laughing and singing from next door faded as she leaned against her worktop, breathing fast and heavy; she felt as though she was going to be physically sick. The wine didn't help. Maybe Rachel was right, she had drunk too much, but what was the alternative? Spend the afternoon at the worst party ever, stone cold sober? That was impossible.

What she had witnessed was passion. Desire. Something that Steph hadn't given or felt for Rick for years. She almost felt sorry for them, out there, like teenagers, hiding from everyone. And she felt jealous… not of Rick. Miriam and Angeline could have him. But that they had desire and passion. It was something, wasn't it? It counted for something.

Her mother had a secret, she been convinced of it for ever now. It wasn't the drinking; that was anything but clandestine in their house; it was just something they never talked about. No, there was something else, something missing, stories never to be told or heard. Nothing about Mary's life before marriage, dances, games or friends, ever found its way to Melissa's ear. ‘Ancient history' was used to brush aside Melissa's inquisitiveness or ‘don't remember'. When her mother wasn't drinking and when she was in her sober periods, Melissa would ask questions, trying to make the most of her mam's rare lucid periods.

‘Did you have a beehive?' she asked once, when she was about ten years old.

‘A what?'

‘A beehive. You know, your hair.' Melissa already was beginning to wish she hadn't asked.

‘Never you mind,' she was told. ‘Never you mind.' It was always never you mind, or she was met with outright silence.

‘Did you have a boyfriend before Dad?' she asked when she was older, wildly curious now about her mother and the person she might have been before her. The look which flashed across her mother's face seemed pure anger. But there was something else tucked in there; hidden, a secret, but Melissa had glimpsed it. She needed to know what it was.

Parts of the house were out of bounds. Certain drawers and cupboards (‘Leave it alone, Melissa, you're always meddling!') in her parent's bedroom. When she was a child and her mother was downstairs, Melissa would take advantage and creep in and peer round, hoping that secrets would be revealed just by being in the room. On the top of the wardrobe was an old white suitcase – small, rounded, with a clasp at the top. And locked. It haunted her.

‘But what's in it?' she persevered, suddenly desperate to know. She was only ten or eleven but she showed signs of being a journalist even then.

‘Nothing, it's empty.'

‘Can I have it then?' Melissa thought it would be perfect for carrying around her books.

‘No!' her mother snapped. ‘Leave it be. It's mine, so leave it alone!'

Years later, when she was about fifteen, alone in the house, she began rooting around with the precision of a detective, looking for clues, for answers. In her mother's underwear drawer, she found a small key. She took it out, fingering it in the light from the window, immediately knowing what it was for.

She pulled a chair from the landing over to the wardrobe and reached up, knocking the suitcase off the top, so it bounced off her head and shoulder, releasing a smoke bomb of dust. She scrambled to her feet and, fingers trembling, turned the key, and lifted the lid.

Nothing. Empty. Well, empty-ish. Just some of her old baby clothes, a little knitted cardigan, a teddy bear and a few other bits and pieces. Normal enough. No great secrets. Nothing to see. Except that until then, she had never regarded her mother as particularly sentimental. Other mothers, Melissa had noticed, placed photos on walls, pinned paintings to cork boards, displayed clay disasters proudly on mantelpieces. Mary didn't even bother ordering Melissa's school photos but although she still smiled for the camera, she became quickly aware of the utter futility of the exercise.

But after finding the suitcase, Melissa felt exuberantly pleased. If her mother had kept this stuff and was so possessive about it, then she did love her, in her own, unique way. She was like all those other mothers; Melissa was – gloriously, wondrously, rapturously
loved
.

When her mother returned that day, Melissa was on her best behaviour, making tea, and had the house pin-neat, anxious to return this newly discovered sentimentality. But her mother didn't respond to Melissa's love-lorn advances and, eventually, the suitcase on top of the wardrobe lost its power and Melissa was left with the very clear impression that she was lower down on her mother's priorities. She did love drink though, that was clear.

But nothing could shake the feeling that she was to blame. If, somehow, she had been a better daughter, her mother wouldn't have drunk. If she had been more beautiful, cleverer, better behaved, whatever, all would have been well. There must be something about her that made her impossible to love.

When she was little, she would watch
The Little House on the Prairie
and marvel at Ma; so nice, so kind and so smiley. She would have loved to have had a mother who smiled at her, instead of being dead behind the eyes and nothing Melissa ever did made her mother act like she was a good daughter, a good person, someone worthy of love.

Once she moved out and into the flat on Baggot Street with Steph, in their third year at university, life became much easier and Melissa began to breathe more deeply. But she wondered if she would ever feel normal. Being normal seemed effortless for the rest of the world. For her, it was a daily struggle to just try and get on with her life, to pretend to everyone that she was normal and not just hiding a mass of insecurities and feelings of unworthiness. She did quite well most of time. It helped having Cormac around. He always made her feel good and thankfully later on, she was meeting Cormac. He had called her and asked her to call in to have a look at the shop.