Just Between Us (50 page)

It was all too much for Holly. She couldn’t bear to be just another name on Tom and Caroline’s Rolodex, a memory of the days in Windmill Terrace. She could picture Caroline introducing her: ‘
This is Holly who used to live in the cutest flat below Tom’s. Yes, remember when he moved to Dublin first and lived in this crummy house, before I moved too.
Well, Holly was Tom’s neighbour, one of a trio of marvellous mad people. Joan Atwood, the designer, was one of them actually
.’ Then Caroline would whisper that Holly used to have a crush on Tom. ‘
Sweet girl, sobbed at our wedding, you know. Bless
.’

‘Tom, I’m sorry, I have to go. Have a lovely party.’ Holly thrust her glass into his hand and, without taking in the astonished look on his face, rushed out of the room into the lobby. She didn’t wait to see if either Kenny or Joan had noticed her abrupt flight. They’d figure out roughly what had happened. Out the hotel door and down the street she ran, dodging pedestrians; anything to get away from Tom.

In her haste to get away, she didn’t look back. If she had, she’d have seen Tom fighting past party guests as he tried to follow her. But when Tom made it to the street, Holly was long gone.

When she was far enough away, she slowed down to a gentle walk. She never wanted to see him again. It hurt too much. There was no point agonising over ‘if only’. If only she’d told him how she felt in the early days; if only he’d had the chance to say that he liked her as a friend and nothing more, then perhaps she’d have got over him. But the endless hoping that he’d recognise her love, recognise that she, not Caroline, was the right woman for him, that had been torture. Holly speeded up. She’d made the decision to walk out of his life. He wasn’t walking out of hers,
she
was walking out of
his
. She was powerful and strong. She was going to get over Tom Barry.

Clarisse and Wendy Cavaletto sat in the hotel restaurant and perused the lunch menu. Wendy wasn’t hungry and would have preferred a sandwich somewhere local but Clarisse was very keen on being seen in all the right places, and insisted that the Michelin-starred restaurant in the Manon Hotel was just such a place.

‘Wendy, you can’t hide away. You’ve got to get out and meet people,’ insisted Clarisse on the phone.

Wendy wasn’t sure how meeting her ex-sister-in-law for lunch constituted meeting ‘people’ but decided it was part of some grand plan of Clarisse’s to get her name in the gossip columns. Clarisse had a not-very-secret desire to be one of the country’s society people and had made frantic, albeit so far unsuccessful, efforts during the summer racing season to win ‘best dressed lady’ prizes at Leopardstown, Fairyhouse and the Galway races.

‘I haven’t been hiding away,’ Wendy had pointed out. ‘I’ve joined the amateur dramatic group and the gym.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Clarisse said impatiently. ‘You need to be seen at the right places.’

Now that they were there, sitting in a balcony area where they were highly visible, Wendy regretted not holding out for that quiet sandwich. The Manon Hotel was full of what Clarisse assured her were movers and shakers, and Wendy didn’t fancy the prospect of breaking down in tears in front of such people. This was a possibility because Clarisse had news of Her, Nick’s new woman, and Wendy found herself
ludicrously emotional when it came to her ex-husband. After several last-minute cancellations over the past few months, Clarisse had finally entertained Nick and Stella to dinner and was now bristling with information.

‘A glass of champagne, I think,’ said Clarisse when the waitress came to take their order.

‘Not for me,’ said Wendy. ‘I’ve got the car.’

‘Nonsense,’ her sister-in-law retorted. ‘One glass won’t kill you. We’ll hit the shops afterwards so it’ll be hours before you’re driving. Isn’t this fun?’

‘Yes,’ said Wendy, faking a smile. Clarisse was doing her best, but she was a poor substitute for Belinda, Wendy’s best friend in London. Belinda was the sort of person who’d know exactly how to buoy Wendy up. Having lunch in a pretentious, expensive hotel would not have been on the agenda. Sometimes, Wendy found herself wishing that she hadn’t moved away from London.

Her support system was there, in a city she’d spent years trying to get out of. Now that she had, she almost regretted it. Ireland wasn’t like she’d expected. It had selfishly moved on. While she’d kept the old Ireland alive in her heart, it had changed into this new modern European country she didn’t recognise. After twenty years away, she knew nobody and felt she didn’t fit in.

Her sister lived in the States and her parents were dead. Her circle of old friends had all moved on and she was left with Clarisse.

It was tough relying on someone like her sister-in-law for support. Clarisse had a way of telling you things with her own idiosyncratic twist, a sort of spin. She didn’t just give you the facts, she gave her interpretation of them too, which was why Wendy wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear about Nick’s new girlfriend from her.

They both managed a bit of idle chat about nothing until they had their champagne. Thus fortified, Clarisse began.

‘Well, I wasn’t that impressed, I can tell you. She obviously doesn’t spend much money on clothes. She had this linen
skirt on and it was at least five years old. I had one like it but I’ve long since thrown it out. And her hair, well. What a disaster. She has one of those short, unforgiving haircuts.’ Clarissse shuddered.

Wendy felt slightly cheered up by this, cheered up enough to ask: ‘Is she good-looking?’

‘Not bad, if you like that sort of thing. Dark haired and not much make-up. Blonde would suit her better.’ Clarisse touched her own expensively streaked mane. Both she and Wendy were blonde. Clarisse couldn’t understand why everybody wasn’t blonde. Bleach hid the grey and was so much more flattering, she felt. ‘And I think she looks her age.’

Wendy desperately wanted to know what that age was. She’d managed not to ask Nick during that shaming phone call where she’d screamed at him and told him he was a bastard for finding someone new so quickly and she hoped he’d drop dead.

Clarisse didn’t disappoint. ‘She’s younger than him, late thirties I’d say, although she could do more with herself. I can’t see her as the sort who spends a moment in the beautician’s.’

Wendy digested this, not sure if she was happy or sad that her ex-husband was with a woman who could do more with herself. It shouldn’t matter what sort of a woman he went out with, but somehow, it did. It was as if his new choice of mate was a direct reflection on Wendy herself. A younger and ambitious girlfriend implied that Wendy lacked those very attributes. Which was nearly as humiliating as the speed with which Nick had apparently got over the divorce and found Her.

‘What did Howard think?’ asked Wendy. She’d always been fond of Nick’s brother, although they didn’t have much in common. He was a tax inspector, a subject Wendy found terminally boring.

‘Well, you know Howard.’ Clarisse’s expression signified that she knew Howard too well and, in fact, was fed up
with knowing him. ‘He likes the oddest people. The three of them were talking all night, gabbling away about the planning tribunals and offshore accounts.’

Their salads arrived.

‘I’ll tell you one thing though,’ said Clarisse, spearing a sliver of chicken, ‘I have a feeling about her. I told Howard when they were gone: “Mark my words,” I said, “they’re going out more than three months.’”

Wendy stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s a bit convenient, isn’t it? He and you split up, he rushes back home and suddenly, there’s this new woman on the scene. I’d call that a bit quick, wouldn’t you?’ Clarisse looked archly at her former sister-in-law. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m interfering, Wendy, but I wanted to mark your card. I have a suspicion that Nick isn’t being totally honest with you about Stella.’

Wendy dropped her fork with a clatter, not caring if the noise startled all the lunching movers and shakers. She gulped down her champagne and stared grimly at Clarisse.

‘I’m not saying anything for definite,’ Clarisse went on, waving a be-ringed hand in the direction of the waitress for service. ‘I just thought you ought to know.’

Wendy needed another glass of champagne. To hell with the car. She’d leave it in the car park.

‘The other interesting thing,’ Clarisse was getting into her stride now, ‘is when I asked how she was getting on with the girls. Well, you could have cut the atmosphere with a knife. She smiled, yes, but you could see she wasn’t smiling inside. Oh no. Nick just sat there and he looked grey. That’s it,’ Clarisse said triumphantly, ‘that’s your trump card, Wendy. The girls don’t like her and Nick would never stay with anyone if the girls don’t get on with her. He’d do anything for Sara and Jenna. You could have him back with a snap of your fingers.’

A bottle of the house champagne arrived.

‘We’re divorced,’ said Wendy weakly. ‘He’s my ex-husband.’

‘Piffle,’ said Clarisse dismissively. ‘You can get married again. People do it all the time. Just a blip until you came to your senses. Nick and you had a fine marriage and let me tell you,’ she waggled a witchy finger across the table, ‘there aren’t too many single men waiting around for women of our age. Nick’s a catch, that’s why Ms Never Been to the Beautician’s snapped him up so quickly.’

Wendy sipped her champagne. It was lonely on her own. And dealing with Jenna was becoming more and more difficult. Together in the house, they snapped at each other from morning to night with no Nick to calm things down and jolly Jenna out of her sulks.

The part of Wendy’s mind that had accepted the irretrievable demise of their marriage simply shut down. They could do it for the children’s sakes. Wendy could have coped with staying together for the children in the first place: that was what women did, wasn’t it? Only Nick had said it was no good any more, that it had been over for years and they both knew it. And she’d known he was telling the truth, then. But now…

Clarisse was right: Nick adored their daughters. He’d do anything for them. Sara was old enough to cope on her own but Jenna needed stability.

‘Have some more champagne,’ said Clarisse, reaching over with the bottle.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Wendy.

‘You see,’ Clarisse went on, ‘if I were you, Wendy, love,
not
that I want to put my oar in or anything, but if I were you, I’d let that woman see that the children come first with Nick. Let her see where Nick’s loyalties lie. That’ll take the wind out of her sails.’

Clarisse, who’d taken an instant dislike to Stella Miller, sat back in satisfaction. She’d seen through Stella instantly. Women like her were just after other women’s husbands. Clarisse knew the type. They waited until there was a chink in a good marriage and then bam! They were in there with their big eyes and their firm bodies. They were a danger
to decent women, Clarisse decided firmly. She didn’t want Howard getting any ideas from the likes of her.

‘He does adore the girls,’ said Wendy tearfully.

‘There you are, then,’ said Clarisse. She raised her glass. ‘To the future,’ she said.

Stella loved having Nick pottering round the galley kitchen with her. Not that he was up to taking over any of the major culinary tasks unless it involved putting a chicken in the oven, but he was eager to peel, slice and chop, and he never seemed to mind emptying the dishwasher, a task Stella hated. This was what family life was all about, Stella thought happily, as she gently poached pears for the Roquefort, pear and fig salad she was working on. It was a glorious Sunday at noon and they were getting ready for a buffet-style Sunday lunch in Stella’s tiny courtyard garden.

She and Nick had given it a fresh coat of white paint the previous week and now it was like a glorious, Moroccan-inspired sun trap, with clematis-covered walls. Prettily coloured pots clustered in the corners, while hanging baskets added vibrant colour.

Amelia was setting up her toys outside in the courtyard, in preparation for the arrival of Shona and Becky. Hazel, Ivan and the twins were due in half an hour, along with Vicki and the current love of her life, Craig from work.

‘What can I do next?’ asked Nick, leaning over her shoulder as she poached the pears. He nuzzled her neck and wrapped his arms tightly round her waist.

Stella forgot about poaching for a moment and leaned back against him, loving the feeling of his strong body wrapped around hers.

He’d stayed over the night before and the three of them had enjoyed a pizza. When Amelia was in bed, Stella and Nick had lain together on the couch and watched an old movie on the TV, blissfully happy until it was time for bed. That had been even more blissful. Their lovemaking had been intense and the relaxed atmosphere of the evening had
vanished, to be replaced by fervent, very physical sex, where each one’s fierce passion had matched the other’s.

Their bodies slick with sweat, they’d come together, hungry for each other until finally, they’d climaxed fiercely.

‘Better than a sleeping pill any day,’ Stella had murmured, as she curled up beside him, her eyes already closing.

Now she felt sexy and loved, her muscles aching pleasurably from their acrobatics and aware of her lover’s body close beside hers. Sex definitely made her feel sexier, Stella thought, groaning with pleasure as Nick’s hands cupped her breasts and rubbed her nipples into exquisite peaks through her black vest top.

‘Stop or we won’t be having poached pears, we’ll be having mashed pears,’ she murmured. God, but he knew how to turn her on.

The sound of Amelia calling ‘Mum’ from the garden made them part, laughing.

‘Then stop tempting me with that little skimpy top thing,’ Nick retorted. ‘As you’re tied up, I’ll go and see what Amelia wants.’

Stella watched them through the window. Amelia was pointing at a bug which had landed on her dolls. Nick picked it up and carefully removed it, before coming back and crouching down beside Amelia to listen to her plans for a dolls’ tea party.

Stella tested the pears, thinking how lucky she’d been to find Nick.

He’d given her confidence in so many ways: confidence in her looks for one. Not that Stella had ever seen herself as ugly, but she’d always been restrained in her demeanour, wearing clothes that would have suited an older woman just as well, never giving in to the impulse to be young and daft. These days she bought jaunty modern tops, which she wore with comfortable jeans. She’d dumped her neutral lipsticks for rich glossy colours, and she wore all her vintage jewellery, instead of leaving it to look beautiful in her bedroom.

The sense of renewed confidence had included entertaining. Suddenly, it was fun to invite people over to lunch and dinner, and the new, improved Stella didn’t worry too much about the menu either. She flicked through her cookbooks, whisking up home-made pizza with salad and her own, fabulous bruschetta. She roasted huge garlic and lemon scented chickens, gently cooked baby vegetables, and dredged potato wedges in rosemary and spices. Today, she was serving a glorious buffet where less work and more conversation was to be the order of the day. She wasn’t worried that she only had four matching wine glasses and there would be six adult guests. They had enough glasses to go round, nobody would mind in the slightest.

Nick’s mobile phone rang.

‘Nick, phone!’ she called, grabbing it from the counter top and handing it to him through the patio doors.

‘Hi, Jenna,’ he said warmly, stepping into the kitchen.

Stella scooped the pears out of the poaching liquid and arranged them in a dish. Next, she began to top them with cheese ready to be grilled. Fresh figs and scrolls of Parma ham in a mixed leaf salad with some dressing would finish it off.

Nick had gone into the living room to talk. The radio
was
loud, Stella acknowledged. It wasn’t that Nick didn’t like to talk to his daughter in front of her. Still, Stella couldn’t resist straining to overhear the conversation. She held her breath too and a little knot of tension crunched into place in her gut.