The Art of Friendship (8 page)

‘I don’t think…’ began Kirsty, faintly, when she could bring herself to speak.

‘Mmm,’ said Dorothy, as though Kirsty had not spoken, her eyebrows uplifted with possibility. ‘Now that is a good idea. You could work the hours that suited you, Kirsty, and take all the time off you need.’

‘Don’t you see, love?’ said Harry, laying a cool hand on Kirsty’s sweating one. ‘It’s perfect. You can work whatever hours you like. And keep it in the family. I like that idea. I think Scott would’ve liked it, too. Don’t you, Dorothy?’

At the invocation of her dead husband’s name, Kirsty stared down at her lap. For all his faults, Scott would never have condemned her to work in the family business. He’d hated it himself.

Harry rubbed his hands together as though he’d just closed a deal and said, ‘And I’d make sure you were handsomely remunerated, of course.’

There was a long silence and Dorothy said, ‘What do you think, Kirsty?’

‘I think…I’m not sure. It’s not exactly what I had in mind.’

Harry frowned and looked from his wife to Kirsty.

‘I really like the idea of working in the museum. I think it would be interesting.’

‘The paper industry is interesting too,’ said Harry.

‘I’m sure it is, Harry. And I’m very appreciative of your generous offer. But I’m not sure I can accept it.’

‘Sure you can,’ he said. He folded his arms across his chest like a buffer.

‘Harry,’ said Dorothy, who had been quiet for some moments. ‘I don’t think it’s a case of not being able to accept. I think it’s a case of not wanting to. Is that right, Kirsty?’

In spite of her burning cheeks, Kirsty was determined to show them that she meant business. So often in the past she had been persuaded to go along with things that went against her better judgment. Little things, like how much TV the children were allowed to watch and what time they went to bed when they had sleepovers. But this time it was her life, her future, at stake.

She sat up straight and said, ‘Yes. That’s right.’

Harry let out a long sigh and visibly deflated. He rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand, sniffed, and refolded his arms. ‘I was hoping the boys would take over the business one day, you know,’ he said. ‘I would’ve been retired by now if Scott…’

‘Harry,’ said Dorothy tenderly and she paused, then lowered her voice. ‘That’s got nothing to do with this discussion.’

Admonished, albeit gently, Harry shrugged and looked out the window, though there was little to see in the rapidly falling dusk. Kirsty reached out and touched his elbow. ‘Harry?’ she said. He glanced at her hand and looked out the window again. She had offended him and for that she was truly sorry. But the offence was inevitable. He would never see things from her point of view.

‘You’d better watch your time, love,’ said Dorothy with a glance at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s gone five.’

‘Has it?’ she said dimly, without taking her eyes off Harry. She did not want the conversation to end on this unpleasant,
unresolved note. She realised that she wanted them to give her something they could not – their wholehearted support.

But, for now at least, she had been dismissed. Kirsty stood up and said goodbye to her in-laws, awkward in their company for the first time in over three years. Then she slipped upstairs to say goodbye to the boys and, when she came down again, Dorothy was waiting for her at the front door. ‘Don’t you pay too much attention to Harry, love. He’s just…’

‘Hurt?’

‘Aye, that. And grieving. Still.’

Kirsty sighed and pulled on her coat. ‘I didn’t mean to offend him.’

‘I know. But he doesn’t think sometimes.’

Kirsty buttoned her coat and slipped on a pair of black leather gloves.

‘You apply for that job at the museum, Kirsty. And we’ll help you with the boys when you need it.’

‘It’s very good of you to offer,’ said Kirsty, rather formally. She gave the older woman a brief hug, stepped outside into the cold, damp night and onto the gravel path.

‘Just one thing though,’ said Dorothy.

Kirsty turned around, the gravel screeching under the ball of her foot.

‘Don’t ever forget how much we love those boys,’ said Dorothy.

‘I won’t,’ said Kirsty brightly, understanding only too well the plea – or was it a warning? – behind this statement.

Kirsty marched purposefully down the path towards the car but stopped as soon as she heard the front door close behind her. Then she turned and stared at the house, the windows bright with yellow light, her two sons happily and safely ensconced inside. And separated from her, it seemed, by more than just a Victorian brick wall. A few flakes of snow
began to fall, swirling in the wind. She shivered, pulled the collar of the coat around her neck and hurried to the car.

The exhibition was in Cornerstone Gallery on Mill Street, Ballymena – directly opposite the Town Hall. The gallery was spread over two floors and Paul Holmes’ paintings were displayed on the ground floor. It was busy and noisy, people elbow-to-elbow with their complimentary drinks clutched like talismans in their hands. Kirsty did not have the means to splash out hundreds of pounds on original watercolours, however handsome. But she appreciated the high quality of the artwork, exchanged a few words with the artist himself and enjoyed the buzz. They didn’t stay long, mindful of the falling snow outside and the treacherous drive home over Shaneshill which awaited them. Parts of the road were lonely and deserted and at a higher altitude than the surrounding countryside so that snow often lay where there was none in town.

By nine o’clock they were back in Ballyfergus and settled at their usual table in No.11. The bar was two-deep with the familiar faces of local businessmen, ties removed and top buttons undone, who had dropped by for their regular Friday pint, or two, on the way home.

‘Good job you booked, Janice,’ said Patsy, ‘or we’d never have got our table.’ She arranged the folds of her wool skirt round her knees and ran her fingers through her short, dyed hair. She’d worn it in the same spiky, youthful style all the time Kirsty had known her. It showed off her good bone structure, and suited her lively personality. When she moved her head large diamond earrings winked in each lobe.

Janice, urbane in a black cashmere roll-neck, figure-hugging black skirt and boots, handed round the menus. ‘Let’s order quickly, shall we? The kitchen closes in half an hour.’

Once the food was ordered and they all had a drink in
front of them Kirsty asked, ‘So what did you think of the competition, Clare?’

Clare downed a third of a glass of white wine before answering. She was more casually dressed than the others in black jeans and a patterned shirt. Around her neck, on a green leather thong, she wore a piece of pink shell sculpted into the shape of a flower. As usual her face was bare of make-up, and her long brown hair was freshly washed and fell around her shoulders like a waterfall. Over the years Clare had put on the pounds and it did not suit her. She had been prettier when she was slimmer. ‘Well, Paul Holmes’s got talent, that’s for sure.’ Clare let out a long sigh. ‘I’m not sure my work’s up to that standard.’

‘Oh, don’t say that,’ said Kirsty, loyally. ‘You paint just as well. Better even.’ If Clare had a fault it was that she fluctuated wildly between confidence and self-doubt – and more often the latter. She was always putting herself down. ‘How’s the studio?’

‘The studio’s fantastic,’ said Clare, enthusiasm returning to her voice. ‘Complete peace and no interruptions from screaming kids! So far I’ve managed a couple of evenings and a few hours on Sundays.’

Janice smiled broadly.

‘And how’s the painting coming on?’ asked Patsy.

‘The painting…’ Clare’s voice trailed off. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, let’s just say I’m a bit rusty.’

‘We just need to get you oiled then!’ cried Janice, laughing. ‘Speaking of which,’ she added, raised a glass and took a long drink. ‘That’s better.’ Clare almost finished her wine.

Janice looked round at the others and said, ‘Seriously though, Clare showed me and Patsy what she’d done and it was good. As good as what you were painting four years ago, Clare. Isn’t that right, Patsy?’

Patsy shook her head distractedly. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

‘I said, Clare’s work is good, isn’t it?’

‘It is so,’ said Patsy, nursing her glass and staring at Clare. ‘Do you know what I think, Clare? I think you’re too hard on yourself. Way too hard.’

Clare blushed, and looked at a spot on the floor which she rubbed with the toe of her brown boot.

‘I know what we should do!’ exclaimed Patsy and everyone said, ‘What?’ at the same time.

‘I think we should plan an exhibition for you.’

‘No,’ said Clare with a gasp, and she put the tips of her fingers to her lips. Her nails were badly bitten and her hands work-worn – the scourge not only of mothers of young children but artists too.

Patsy cocked her head to one side. ‘I’m thinking something pretty low-key, maybe in conjunction with another artist. Someone who works in a different medium. Mmm, let me think…’ She sat back in the tub chair and was quiet for a few moments, then came to life again. ‘I know. I was hoping to do a wee exhibition for Bronson in the spring.’ She was referring to an old friend of hers, the unlikely-named Bronson Gaffney, a local artist who did traditional landscapes in oil. ‘I could have a chat with him and see if he would be willing to do a joint exhibition. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem. It would get you a bit of exposure, in a low-pressured way, and give you something to work towards. And Bronson’s just lovely, so he is.’

Clare’s fingers pressed against her lips until the colour leached from them but her eyes were alive with excitement. ‘Do you really think I could do it?’

‘Of course you could,’ said Patsy. ‘And what’s more, I bet you I sell every one of your pictures!’

It took Clare only a few seconds to consider the offer. ‘In
that case, okay then. You’re on!’ she cried and the others gave a little cheer.

‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we can talk about it some more,’ said Patsy.

‘I think that calls for another drink,’ said Clare, flushed with excitement. She got up and went to the bar. Patsy, who was driving, declined the offer of another drink. When Clare returned, Kirsty asked, ‘So, how’s everyone else getting on with their resolutions?’

‘I ordered a new treadmill for the gym,’ said Janice.

‘I thought you had one already?’ Clare frowned in puzzlement.

‘Oh, we did, but that’s absolutely ancient,’ said Janice with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘This one’s state of the art.’

‘Well, rather you than me,’ said Patsy, unconsciously skimming her stomach with the flat of her palm. ‘There’s nothing of you as it is, Janice. If you exercise any more you’ll disappear!’

‘Always room for improvement, my dear,’ retorted Janice good-naturedly.

Listening to this exchange, Kirsty wondered why Janice, poised and elegant, was so obsessed with continual self-improvement. There was nothing wrong with making the most of yourself – and Kirsty was as vain as the next woman – but Janice pursued physical perfection with religious fervour. For the first time it crossed Kirsty’s mind that, perhaps, Janice wasn’t as happy as she appeared. In exercising every pick of fat away, was she exercising away demons too? Kirsty might have known her for fifteen years, but did she know the real Janice?

‘Have you been on any more dates recently?’ asked Patsy, rousing Kirsty from her reverie.

She let out an audible sigh and smiled wryly. ‘If you could
call the last time a date. I think I need a few weeks to recover from that experience and drum up the enthusiasm to give it another go. I should have made a different resolution,’ she went on, seriously. She was sick already of the others asking her about dating. ‘I should’ve made it something simple. Like getting a job.’ Something, she thought, that she could realistically achieve.

‘Are you thinking about going back to work, then?’ said Janice, leaning forwards with interest.

‘Yeah. I’ve seen a job advertised. At the museum,’ she said.

‘That’s exciting. What does it involve?’ asked Clare.

‘The job title’s “Museum Learning Assistant”. I’d look after groups and schools coming in for visits, as well as welcome visitors. There’d be a bit of admin – answering email and telephone enquiries, that sort of thing. To be honest, the job description’s very varied and a bit vague. Which is a good thing ‘cos I think it’d be easy to make the job my own, if you know what I mean.’

‘Yes, once you’ve got your feet under the table,’ said Patsy, shrewdly.

‘That’s right,’ said Kirsty, realising that the more she talked about this job, the more she wanted it. ‘It’s only part-time and Dorothy and Harry have offered to help with the boys. But they didn’t hide the fact that they’re not happy about it,’ she added glumly. ‘Well, Harry isn’t.’

Patsy gave Kirsty a knowing look. ‘Not that it’s any of his business.’

Kirsty tilted her head in Patsy’s direction, acknowledging the comment but giving it no credence. Patsy didn’t understand how it was. Kirsty’s existence was so bound up with her in-laws, she had difficulty separating her life from theirs, especially when what she chose to do impacted on them. ‘He warmed to the idea after a bit,’ she went on. ‘But only
because he had the bright idea that I would work in the factory office.’

‘And that’s not something you want to do?’ said Janice.

‘God, no!’ exclaimed Kirsty, jerking with such sharpness that some wine slopped out of the glass in her hand onto the table. ‘I couldn’t think of anything worse. I think it would kill me. He suggested I do the books, pay the wages, that sort of thing. Apart from hating it, I don’t have the background for office work.’

‘I’m sure he meant well,’ said Janice gently, patting the back of Kirsty’s hand with her French-manicured one.

‘He did. But he doesn’t seem to understand that I need to build a life of my own. Neither of them do.’

‘I take it you said “no”?’ said Clare.

‘I did and he took the huff. I think he was hurt.’

‘He’ll get over it,’ said Patsy. ‘I know it’s hard for them. It’s understandable that they want to be as close to their grandsons as possible. And that’s great – you wouldn’t want it any other way. But they mustn’t expect you to be answerable to them. They have to respect your right to an independent life.’