Friends Like Us (6 page)

‘Still there, at the paper. Still typing away. Won the O'Brien prize last year… having a bit of a run of it at the moment. But we've got a new editor… Liam Connelly… and I don't think he's as keen on me as the judges of the O'Brien prize are. He's all about “the bottom line” and “entertainment”. And I'm all about the story. But that doesn't sell papers, unfortunately.'

‘So, what's going to happen?'

‘Well, either he's right or I am. We'll have to wait and see,' she shrugged. ‘So,' she changed the subject, ‘Eilis, how's life at the hospital?'

Eilis had never been exactly voluble, she was quiet and reserved, not one to blather and blabber, and Steph and Melissa knew and respected this and never expected fully in-depth answers.

‘Grand, you know. Busy, stressful. Not enough tea breaks. The usual. Nice patients and narky relatives.'

‘Narky?' said Melissa.

‘Well,' said Eilis, thinking of that man with the blue eyes who was so worried about his mother. ‘I don't blame them, you know, if they are narky. And get annoyed.' She smiled. ‘Actually, one sent me flowers.'

Steph and Melissa raised an eyebrow and shared a glance.

‘Flowers?' said Melissa. ‘That was nice.'

‘Was there a card?' asked Steph. ‘What did he say? Does he know you're kind of married?'

Eilis laughed. ‘It's not like that at all… he was just saying sorry for shouting at me and to thank me for looking after his mother.'

‘Well,' said Melissa. ‘That sounds very nice, I must say. I can't remember the last time anyone did something like that for me. The closest I get to someone showing appreciation is Jimbo, who sits beside me, buying me a drink on a Friday night. But then forgetting his wallet.'

‘What was his name?' said Steph.

‘I don't know, I didn't ask and he didn't say on the card. He knew I would know who he was. To be honest,' she said, ‘they were quite nice. The flowers. Not your normal posh roses or anything like that. More rustic, like they were from a very fancy florist or from a really amazing garden, all berries and viburnum. Really lovely, actually.' She smiled at the memory and Melissa and Steph caught each other's eye.

‘You would notice them,' I suppose, ‘you being green-fingered and all,' said Steph.

‘What would Rob say if he knew you were being sent flowers?' teased Melissa.

‘I don't think he would care,' said Eilis ‘Anyway there was nothing romantic about it. He was just saying sorry.'

‘Why had he shouted at you?'

‘His mother hadn't been seen. Lovely woman, she was.' That evening on the ward, she had seen his mother as soon as she could, gave her every test going and asked one of the nurses to make her and the man a cup of tea. They both looked as though they needed one. ‘It was a suspected stroke,' she continued, ‘but in the end it wasn't. High blood pressure, dizziness, hadn't been taking her tablets. She's just old, you know. And he's worried… about losing her. Anyway… that's enough about work.' She changed the subject swiftly, deflecting all the attention away from her. ‘How's Rachel, Steph?'

‘A genius,' smiled Steph. ‘Must take after her father. But she's good at everything… just a few teenager things going on. She's sixteen now.'

Melissa watched her two old friends. Two women she had known for a lifetime. She had missed them. Their lives were much more settled and grown up than hers. There was Eilis, still with Rob. A great guy. One of the best. He had swooped in just when Eilis could have crumbled after her mother died. And there was Steph, mother to Rachel, and still with Rick. He wasn't exactly lovely or easy, that was obvious, but they had made a home together. It always made Melissa slightly wistful – she had never found anyone crazy enough to want her back.

‘Didn't you say you were back from Paris, Mel?' Steph asked, interrupting her thoughts. ‘The day of the crash. I never even asked who you were with.'

Bloody Paris. Why had she said anything? ‘Oh no one, not really. Just a guy… Alistair. It's nothing.' She waved it away, hoping there wouldn't be any follow-up questions. ‘Anyway, it's Paris,' said Melissa, shrugging Gallicly and smiling enigmatically, as though she was the one to have finished with him, or that he was just some fling that she could take up or down whenever it suited her. ‘It does all the work for you.'

‘Well, you in Paris,' said Steph, ‘and I'm off to Rome next month.'

‘I'm not going anywhere until the summer,' said Eilis. ‘Greece. I wish we were going right now. Bit of heat on my bones, ouzo in my veins.' She turned to Steph. ‘Who are you going to Rome with? Just you and Rick?'

‘Him and some of the gang. A rugby weekend. You know Miriam and Hugh… from next door? And some of their friends. It's going to be fun. And you know how much I love Rome. All that art, the churches. I can dust off my art history.' Except, she thought, I might as well have not bothered doing a degree. I can't remember the last time I went to a gallery. She vowed to sneak off, leave the rugby crowd behind, and get to the Pantheon, her favourite Roman church.

‘Yes, yes, of course. That does sound nice…' said Eilis. ‘That'll be lovely. Remember that summer in Rome, swanning about.'

‘That was for the love of art,' said Steph laughing. ‘And this is a love of rugby.'

‘Oh dear,' said Melissa, pretending to be shocked. ‘I didn't realize you had turned into one of those.'

‘I'm not really,' said Steph, conspiratorially. ‘I just have to pretend.'

‘Marital harmony,' said Melissa. ‘You probably have to pretend all sorts of things.' She laughed but she caught Steph's eye and saw again that look of something she couldn't quite figure out.

They have no idea how much I am dreading it, thought Steph. A weekend with your husband who doesn't speak to you, and a group of people you either don't know or don't like, and one of the woman you suspect you husband is sleeping with. Now,
that's
a weekend.

Oh, the cafe of Brown Thomas was nice at ten o'clock in the morning, nice and quiet, it was practically a spiritual experience. It was definitely Dublin's smartest and most expensive shop, a place to dream of a better and nicer life.

Steph was sipping a cup of tea and spreading butter
and
jam onto her croissant. Pity, she thought, that you couldn't spend all your life eating butter and pastries,
Irish Times
propped against the pot, a respite from reality. I could live here, she mused. Like that man in that film who lived in an airport. Hide among the coats at closing time. Spritz perfume in the empty make-up hall, stroke the scarves and handle the shoes. Not a bad life… not a bad life at all.

Years ago, when Steph and Melissa house-shared on Baggot Street, life was full of possibilities. They could have been
anything
. Life stretched out endlessly, gloriously, deliciously. And then the options dried up. Why does no one warn you, tell you that there is a sell-by date on freedom? That life gets smaller as you get older?

At the time, marrying Rick hadn't seemed a life-depleting decision. She was pregnant, they were in love, she thought. What else was she going to do? She was twenty-two and felt ancient, as though she knew it all. And leaving that lovely job at the Edith Long Gallery didn't seem like such a big thing. She remembers Mrs Long's shock when she told her.

‘Earn your own money, my darling.' Mrs Long had shaken her head. ‘Don't rely on
a man
. Don't
ever
rely on a man.' She blew out her cigarette smoke.

Steph had laughed, actually laughed. ‘It'll be grand,' she said, airily and dismissively. ‘I might set up my own gallery one day. Or move to Paris. I just don't know.'

Steph still cringed at how naive she was… how wildly optimistic… how incredibly stupid.

‘Well,' said Mrs Long, after a pause. ‘Stay in touch with me and… Don't lose yourself. You never know…'

To all those with absolutely no idea whatsoever, Steph's life was
lovely
. There was the over-paid lawyer husband. Nice house. Life as a stay-at-home mother. What else could a woman ask for?

But pots of money do not equal happiness. No one actually believes that until they find themselves with spare money but not the things they actually want - love, companionship, respect - all of which are free. When your husband doesn't actually
speak
to you, when you sleep in the same bed as someone and you never touch, when you clean someone's clothes and stock the fridge and pile up newspapers and pick up socks and buy wine and that person, for whom all those tasks are done, can't be bothered to say thank you or ask how you actually are, when he is too busy with other women, when he is quick to anger and when the threat of his bulk, his superior muscle strength is always there, then the allure of the nice house etc wears pretty thin, pretty quickly.

If only she would go all crazy and pour away his vintage wine and put prawns in his briefcase or whatever, or CHUCK HIM OUT, she might feel better. But she hadn't so far and it didn't look as though she might anytime soon. So she was a pathetic weakling and this fact only made her feel worse. And what kind of role model was she to Rachel? A crap one, that's what.

She spread some more butter on her croissant and sunk her teeth into it.

‘Steph!' A voice across the cafe. ‘Steph!'

Oh Jesus. Miriam.

Frustratingly, she was looking particularly good this morning. Dressed, as usual, all in black, skinny jeans and towering boot things, blonde hair piled high and falling down and sexy flicky make-up. Not bad for a Wednesday morning. Dishevelled on Miriam looked sexy, but on Steph, it would have looked like crazy cat-lady. Miriam was sexier than Steph, she knew that. And in Rick's eyes, she was a fun person, loved a good flirt and a bottle of two of wine. She wasn't boring like Steph was. She could see the attraction. They deserved each other, but it didn't make the deception any easier to take.

She self-consciously pulled at her jacket, feeling immediately frumpy. Years ago, she used to wear ancient, battered leather jackets. Now, she was clothed in the vestments of one whose mojo has long since absconded. She had her hair done every six weeks, but she just didn't feel like herself. She didn't feel right… she was
uncomfortable
in her skin. She just wasn't
her
. At least those wafty kaftans she used to wear felt right. But Rick used to laugh at them, and there was that sense that he was slightly embarrassed by that bohemian side to her, and so she stopped wearing them and tried to be the good lawyer's wife.

Miriam weaved her way through the tables, armed with bags and Steph hid any murderous desires with a warm smile, and as they kissed hello, a waft of Miriam's perfume hit her nose, something deep and musky.

‘Coffee… I
so
need one,' said Miriam. ‘I am run off my feet. It is exhausting. Someone should ban communions. Sorcha's. Two weeks. You are coming, aren't you? Anyway, they are positively the worst thing ever. Who do I need to talk to? The Pope? Haw haw!' Miriam bared her gleaming teeth. ‘No, but seriously,' she lowered her voice, ‘he has no idea… the Pope, I mean… no fecking idea of the toll they take. I've had to cancel Body Pump with Paddy for the second time this week. And I said to the girls at the tennis club that I was sorry they would have to play the doubles match without me. I have. Too. Much. To. Do.'

Steph was trying to keep up with this onslaught but she was mostly just watching Miriam's mouth move, the lipstick and lip liner, the obligatory bleached teeth. She wished she was talking to Eilis or Melissa, a conversation of connection.

‘So they were like so disappointed,' continued Miriam. ‘I said, listen girls, you are just gonna have to do it without me and they all said they didn't know if they could.' She lifted a hand to summon the waitress. ‘Okay,' continued Miriam, ‘so they didn't win the semis, but I can't feel bad about that, can I? I am not God, I am not omnivorous. I can't be everywhere.'

Omniscient, corrected Steph in her head.

‘So,' Miriam shrugged, ‘we go down a point in the league. But I'm sorry, all right?' She laughed and fiddled with her up-down-do.

‘Coffee!' Miriam called to the waitress. ‘Skinny latte. Soya. Thanks, Petrina. You are an absolute angel.' She smiled winningly. ‘Anyway, so this is my second…

Steph was trying to keep up. ‘Second what?' Coffee? Coming? Affair with a married man?

‘Second
communion
… and, I tell you, they have me
run
ragged. The dress, the shoes… and do you know, I cannot get the make-up artist to the house on Saturday. Alberto's fully booked. I am going to have to do it myself. And he's so good at the spray tan with that tent he has.'

‘What?' Steph was utterly confused. ‘Is Sorcha going to wear make-up and get a tan?' Sorcha was Miriam's youngest and only nine.

‘Oh, she's fine… she's been sorted for months. I'm talking about
my
dress and
my
shoes. And Alberto always does my hair and make-up. I think Lucinda Coleman has him booked. Bitch. Haw haw. So, anyway,' she looked down at Steph's plate. ‘You're having a coffee all on your ownsome?'

Oh Jesus. Make her go away. How could one woman do this to another, thought Steph. Was the sex that good? Not with Rick it couldn't be. She looked away and thought about just getting up and leaving Miriam mid-sentence. She may be sexy but she was exceptionally boring.

‘And a
croissant
I see!' continued Miriam. ‘Naughty-naughty!'

‘Just a quiet moment, you know,' said Steph. Until you and your tedious stories interrupted me, she said internally. And by the way, Miriam, she wanted to say, your cleavage is too low. You look ridiculous. And stop sleeping with my husband, you woman of no morals. Or brain.