What She Wants (39 page)

Old houses, Virginia sighed, were like middle-aged ladies like herself: every time she thought she’d banished some symptom of age, another sprang up just to remind her of the frailty of woman. Her arthritic hip had been twinge-free for a week, despite the freezing weather, but the painful shoulder spasm she hadn’t experienced for years had reappeared, just when Virginia needed to be energetic. With the children coming to stay, it was important that she looked vital and capable, instead of feeble and in need of being looked after. Not that they were children, Virginia corrected herself. They were adults. Twenty-seven and twenty-five respectively. But somewhere in the depths of her mind, Laurence and Jamie would always be children. They had their own lives to lead, grown up lives where they worked all the hours God sent. Laurence was building up the dental practice he’d set up with two friends in Swords, while Jamie was a science teacher in a boys’ school. She was so proud of them, proud of all her three boys. Virginia just hoped she’d managed that parental cliche: to give them roots and wings. It had been hard to leave Jamie and Laurence in Dublin when she moved and she’d felt selfish for it. Dominic, in married bliss in London, had Sally and little Alison, while Laurence had been so caught up with the practice, he’d seemed utterly contented. But Jamie had always spent lots of time with his parents, even though he had left home at the age of twenty-two, and actually lived nearby in a house with three college pals. He’d been constantly dropping in for dinner or to borrow something or to get Virginia to bung his clothes in the washing machine as the one in the shared house had broken down yet again. Dear Jamie, her baby. But in her grief over Bill, Virginia hadn’t been able to cope with looking after even herself, never mind Jamie. Both Jamie and Laurence had seen Kilnagoshell House when she was first considering buying it, and when they’d realized there was no point convincing her not to up sticks and move to the country. But they hadn’t been to stay since and she was strangely nervous about their visit.

Barbara and Laurence had been going out for four months and Virginia hadn’t met her yet. Before Bill’s death, Virginia knew Barbara would have been a guest in their house so often, that she’d be almost like family by now. That was Bill all over. Welcoming and generous, he’d wanted his sons to bring their girlfriends home right from the very beginning. Virginia sat on the dusty bed in the paisley bedroom and remembered Laurence’s first girlfriend, a wild, hippie-ish girl who’d gone in for torn jeans, unwashed long hair (‘After a month, it cleans itself,’ she’d insisted) and automatic confrontation with anyone over the age of twenty. Even the besotted Laurence had blanched when she’d tried to start a row with Bill over having a lawnmower that used diesel instead of unleaded. Bill, smiling, had refused to be riled. ‘She’s not what I’d have picked for Laurence myself,’ he’d whispered to Virginia in the kitchen later, ‘but if she’s his choice, we’ll support him.’ ‘Does that mean we all have to get our belly buttons pierced?’ said Virginia, smothering a laugh at the thought of her conservative husband trying to fit in with his son’s new girlfriend. Bill winced. ‘It does look painful,’ he admitted. ‘But young people need to do different things. Remember how my father thought drainpipes and Elvis Presley were signs of the devil?’ ‘You know what I love about you?’ Virginia asked, putting her arms around him. ‘You’re such a fair minded person.’ She was kissing him when Laurence, with his girlfriend in tow, had arrived in the kitchen. Laurence, used to his parents’ constant displays of affection, ignored the kiss and opened the fridge. His girlfriend stared at them in astonishment. Virginia pulled away from Bill’s lips and grinned at her. ‘Strange though it may seem to you, my dear, people over the age of forty are allowed to have sex lives,’ she said crisply. ‘Why should you young people have all the fun?’ Even if Bill hadn’t minded the rude attack about the lawn

mower, she had. Nobody was allowed to hurt darling Bill. The girl blushed. She hadn’t lasted long after that. Laurence had gone through many girlfriends since then but had rarely been as besotted as he sounded about Barbara. ‘She’s kind and wonderful and… just lovely,’ Laurence had said in a dreamy voice on the phone. ‘She’s a bit annoying in a helpless sort of way,’ Jamie had pointed out in a separate phone call. ‘But she’s bossy at the same time. It’s all very passive aggressive,’ he added. Virginia grinned. Jamie’s dalliance with psychotherapy courses in university had meant he’d analysed them all to bits. ‘You mean you don’t like her?’ Virginia asked. ‘No,’ he said with uncharacteristic firmness. Virginia sighed and wished she had Bill with her to help referee the weekend. Thinking about Bill had the usual effect and she reached for her ever-present tissue and dabbed her eyes with it. Think of something else, she commanded herself. Now, what was she going to do about that damp patch? Putting in a damp course would cost a fortune and she didn’t have a fortune. Replastering. Would that work? Bill had known the answers to questions like that. Oh Virginia, stop it!’ She went down to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea she didn’t want. Why was tea considered such a panacea? In times of emergency, people always insisted on making you tea, as if a few leaves swirling in boiling water could cure anything. Virginia had been brought up on the habit and, even now, she still went automatically to the kettle when a crisis loomed. Her insides were probably pickled with tannin as it was. Stupid tea. She emptied the cup down the sink and decided that she wouldn’t drive to Mary-Kate’s house that night. Virginia, currently unaccustomed to social gatherings, had planned to only stay for a short while and stick to mineral water, despite Delphine’s constant reminiscing about the perfect martini and the remembered hangover from the last club. But why be a party pooper? She

decided. If anybody could do with a few perfect martinis, it was her.

Mary-Kate opened her front door and welcomed Virginia in. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d turn up, you know,’ she said as Virginia handed her the cheese and wine and the bunch of daffodils she’d picked from the swathe that flourished to the left of the mossy lawn at Kilnagoshell. ‘I nearly didn’t,’ Virginia smiled, looking around Mary-Kate’s house with fascination. She’d never been there before. ‘You know the routine,’ Mary-Kate said firmly, steering her into a room papered entirely in rich crimson. ‘If you feel miserable tonight, just let it all out. No bottling stuff up at the Macrame Club.’ That was the wonderful thing about her new friend, Virginia thought: you didn’t have to pretend with Mary-Kate. ‘This room is incredible,’ she breathed as she admired a room that looked as if it belonged in a Hollywood version of 1930s Shanghai. Two huge sofas covered with oriental brocade and fat, tapestried cushions sat opposite each other, with a big dark wooden low table between them covered in knick knacks, wooden animals and a chessboard made from carved jade. The walls were hung with oriental paintings, elegant silk curtains the colour of old roses draped the windows, while old tiffany lamps and richly coloured fringed shades kept the lighting to a dusky, amber glow. A bronze Buddha sat and gazed down at them from the mantelpiece where candles burned brightly scenting the air with a mixture of spice and cinnamon. All the room needed was Mary-Kate in a kimono and the scene would have been perfect. ‘It’s beautiful,’ Virginia said again genuinely. ‘It’s probably a bit kitschy but I love it,’ Mary-Kate said. ‘In my mother’s time, this room was the parlour, formal and never used. She had a small horse-hair chair you’d slide off if you sat on it, not that anyone ever sat on it, except for at weddings and funerals.’ She stroked the black and white cat who’d prowled into the room and was now peering around

to see what he’d play with first. ‘I wanted something different and as I never really got to travel, this room is my escape where I listen to music’ ‘Isn’t it fabulous,’ sighed Delphine, arriving in from the kitchen carrying a tray set with proper martini glasses, a cocktail shaker and all sorts of cocktail accoutrements. ‘I want a room just like this in my house. Drink, Virginia?’ ‘Why not.’ Delphine sat on a big velvet cushion on the floor and stroked the cat, while Mary-Kate put on some music and Virginia sipped her martini. ‘God, this is good,’ she said as the liquid slipped down her throat like quicksilver. ‘I told you she was great at martinis,’ Delphine said. ‘She’s wasted as a pharmacist. The Plaza Hotel in New York would pay her a fortune but she insists on staying in Redlion mixing up cough mixture for the masses.’ Mary-Kate tweaked a strand of Delphine’s hair. ‘Did you get the crackers sorted out, madam?’ she asked. ‘Forgot. I’ll get them now.’ ‘Let me do something,’ Virginia said, getting up from her comfy seat. ‘I feel terrible coming here and letting you do all the work.’ ‘Come and help, then,’ Mary-Kate said, leading the way to a small, tidy kitchen. ‘Mind you, there’s no work for the Macrame Club. Whoever’s hosting provides some drink and that’s it. If you tidy up for the club, you get drummed out. The whole point is that it’s a trouble-free night.’ She gave Virginia some unopened crackers to put on a plate. ‘There’s cheese in the fridge and get a few knives, little plates and the napkins under the cutlery drawer,’ she said. It was very relaxed entertaining, Virginia decided. Refreshingly relaxed. Mary-Kate wasn’t rushing around cutting up crudites for dips. Instead, she was giving her guests something to soak up the martini. Conversation, not catering, was the point of the night. ‘Who’s coming?’ Virginia asked. ‘You better tell me about

everyone so I don’t put my foot in it and say something awful.’ ‘Hope, for a start. You met her in the Widow’s that night with her husband. She’s bringing her sister, Sam, who’s over from London.’ Virginia nodded, taking it all in. She remembered the pretty Hope Parker, with her big, anxious eyes and that good looking, confident husband. ‘And Giselle. She’s German and she runs the creche, Hunnybunnikins, near the hotel. She’s been living here for years and was one of the original Macrame Club six. We always had six from the beginning.’ Virginia nibbled a bit of cheese. ‘Sounds very covenish. How did it start?’ ‘It was Sheila’s idea, at first. She and I had been at school together but we hadn’t really kept in touch. I was in Dublin and she was here. Then her husband left her and ran off with the doctor. They were both lovely men, who’d have known?’ Virginia’s eyes widened. ‘Sheila and I met up round then because I was just back from working in Dublin and we wanted to have a night out away from all the gossips who wanted to know about Sheila’s husband and why I’d come back to Redlion with my tail between my legs and no husband.’ Virginia said nothing. Personally, she was quite interested in the mystery of why Mary-Kate wasn’t married. ‘Giselle was so lovely to Sheila then. She never asked her a thing and took the children for a couple of weekends while Sheila tried to persuade himself to come back - he wouldn’t by the way. Anyway, there were six of us who didn’t feel we fitted in and after a great night in Sheila’s, we decided to meet once a month and just bitch about everyone and everything. It’s great therapy.’ ‘And you did study macrame in the beginning?’ Mary-Kate giggled. ‘That was subterfuge. Both my sister Pauline and Finula Headley-Ryan were madly keen to come

along, mostly so they could hear all the gory details about Sheila’s husband, so to put them off, I said we were having macrame lessons. Finula thinks she’s above such banal gatherings and Pauline had always hated anything except knitting so there was no excuse for either of them to come. I used to buy macrame pot holders occasionally so we could pretend we were actually making things but I’ve stopped bothering. You can’t get them anywhere any more. Honestly, I’ve looked all over, although I think Pauline has figured out that we don’t do much arts and crafts on these nights because she came into the chemist one morning after and I was dying of a hangover.’ She sighed. ‘Poor Pauline. She’s her own worst enemy. You could say the same of Finula, mind you.’ ‘Sheila’s not coming tonight, then?’ ‘No. She lives in the South of France with an electronics millionaire now. But when she comes back on holidays, we have a club night for old times’ sake. She said it kept her sane all those years ago.’ Mary-Kate smiled ruefully. ‘It kept me sane too.’ They carried the goodies into the Shanghai room. ‘There’ll be us three, and Hope, her sister Sam, Giselle, and Mai Hondu, she’s Japanese and her husband works in the computer factory.’ ‘There hasn’t been a proper quorum for ages, since Sheila went,’ Delphine said. The doorbell rang and Delphine went to answer it. ‘Giselle and Mai, welcome,’ she said happily. ‘Drink?’

Hope and Sam were late. Suspecting that her mother and her aunt were going out somewhere exciting without her, Millie had refused to get into her pyjamas and had played up until Hope had finally given up and asked Matt to put her to bed. At which point, Millie had suddenly started behaving sweetly, blinking her long eyelashes at her daddy and doing everything she was told. ‘She’s a little terror,’ Matt had whispered to Hope fondly as Millie rummaged in the toy box for the longest story book she could find.

‘Yes, and she’s got her Daddy wrapped around her little finger,’ Hope whispered back. Now they walked up Mary-Kate’s path, Sam clutching a bottle of wine. Hope, who’d normally have felt mildly nervous about meeting all these women who knew each other, wasn’t even slightly nervous now. She had Sam with her and it was her job to take care of her beloved sister. For a change, Sam was the one who felt nervous. Her world was out of synch and everything had shifted, making her more unsettled than she’d ever been in her life. But as soon as she walked in the door and breathed in the relaxed atmosphere that came when everyone was one martini down and laughing at the cat playing with a toy mouse on the floor, Sam relaxed. She hadn’t expected to. Unused to all-female gatherings, she was half-afraid they’d get all Stepford Wives at a coffee morning and start discussing the merits of washing powder. But this wasn’t that sort of night. Coffee mornings didn’t usually involve strong vodka martinis, complete with olives, or hysterical conversations about their ideal men. The only men that women at coffee mornings were supposed to talk about were their husbands, while at this party, Giselle was delightedly giving a description of her first love, who was apparently very handsome but not a great intellectual genius. ‘Claus is so different,’ Giselle said, referring to her beloved husband. ‘I prefer clever men to beautiful ones but that boy, he was so good looking, I didn’t mind how stupid he was,’ she sighed, once Sam and Hope had been given drinks and seats. ‘He was a male bimbo, I suppose.’ ‘A himbo,’ supplied Delphine. ‘There’s nothing wrong with that,’ Mary-Kate said. ‘I wouldn’t mind a himbo myself. With one of those ten-packs.’ ‘Six packs,’ chorused Sam and Delphine automatically and everyone laughed. ‘I was kidding,’ Mary-Kate insisted. ‘Do you really think I don’t know the difference between a six-pack and a ten-pack? Have you lot never heard of irony?’