The Art of Friendship

Chapter Three

It was Saturday afternoon, a fortnight after the party at Janice’s, when Kirsty stood by the bedroom window in her unnervingly quiet house, facing up to the reality of making good on her New Year’s Eve resolution. Janice had talked her into her first blind date – her first date of any kind – in over fifteen years. And while Janice and Keith would be there to support her at the meal in a local restaurant – and she was sure Janice would not pair her up with someone horrible – she was absolutely petrified. She puffed up her cheeks, then blew out slowly, trying to calm her shaky nerves.

Her instinct was to cancel, but that would be the coward’s way out. She would be letting Janice and Keith down and insulting Keith’s colleague, Robert. She told herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. She was sure Robert would be perfectly charming. But it wasn’t him Kirsty was worried about.

She had no idea how to act on a date. Not any more. She was so out of touch with everything. She had only the vaguest handle on current affairs. She had no idea what was hip in the music world. The only movies she went to see were romcoms with her girlfriends. All she had to talk about, really, when she thought of it, was her two sons and re-runs of CSI, House and Numbers – her favourite TV shows. Not for the first time, she told herself, she should get a job – at least then she would have something interesting to talk about and, God knows, she could use the money. But this time she really meant it. She should’ve made that her New Year’s resolution, forget about men, and save herself all this emotional angst.

But focusing on work wasn’t the answer. She was lonely and the only remedy was male company. She had not been with a man since her husband, Scott, died three years ago. He’d been killed while out cycling early one crisp Sunday morning in November, by an old man driving his battered Peugeot 107 to church. Scott’s helmet had not been secured properly, it had flown off in the impact and he died instantly. The first Kirsty knew about it was the call from the police.

Looking back, it comforted her to know that Scott was not alone when he died – that members of his cycling club, people who cared for him, were there. She prayed that he hadn’t endured even a second of consciousness in which to remember her and his little boys – or to realise that he was never going to see them again. She prayed that he died still believing that she loved him.

Three years was a long time to be alone. Since the accident, everything had revolved around looking after the children and helping Scott’s devastated parents, Harry and Dorothy, come to terms with their loss. More and more Kirsty found herself dissatisfied with the narrowness of her life. And, increasingly, she found herself ready to face the world again. Not only did she need a job – Scott’s insurance money had almost run out – she wanted a job so that she could meet people, laugh with colleagues and feel part of something. But above all, she wanted to be loved.

Instinctively Janice understood this. Kirsty had allowed herself to be coaxed into tonight because, in spite of her fears and excruciating shyness, she did really want to meet someone and fall in love. And Janice was right – she wasn’t going to meet him sitting at home every night watching TV, or going out with her married girlfriends.

Kirsty turned and stared at the long panelled skirt which lay on the bed. It was made from black-and-grey tartan wool fabric, with decorative pouches at the hem, each one embellished with ivory embroidery. The tartan reminded Kirsty of her Scottish roots, and the bohemian design of her days at the Glasgow School of Art where she had met Scott.

She smiled, remembering, and lovingly touched the fabric of the garment as if it could transport her back to that world. Scott Elliott had been a second-year student studying Product Design when she met him. She was a first year, specialising in ceramics and textiles. He was full of infectious enthusiasm about all the ergonomic products he was going to design which would make the world a better place. And which would make his fortune.

She was swept off her feet. Their affair was intense and sustained over the next two years and, when Scott graduated with no prospect of a job and was persuaded to go back home to Ballyfergus to work in his father’s paper mill, their romance survived the separation. When she graduated the following year, she followed him there.

The phone made Kirsty jump.

‘I was just ringing to see how you were?’ Patsy said when she picked up. ‘Janice hasn’t rail-roaded you into tonight, has she?’

Kirsty laughed. ‘Well, just a bit.’

‘You don’t have to go, you know,’ said Patsy quickly. ‘Just tell her you’re not feeling well.’

‘It’s alright. I’m nervous as hell but Janice is right. I do need to start putting myself about a bit.’

‘I certainly hope not, Kirsty,’ said Patsy with a snigger.

‘That wasn’t a very good turn of phrase, was it?’ Kirsty giggled, then said, serious again, ‘Janice is doing me a favour. She’s giving me the push I need. I would like to meet someone and I’m not going to do that unless I start going out on dates, am I?’ She pressed on. ‘Actually, I’m just trying to work out what to wear. It’s blooming freezing out there tonight.’ She wrapped her free arm around her waist and glanced out at the grey sky.

‘What are you thinking of?’ said Patsy.

Kirsty looked at the skirt as she described it and Patsy said, ‘Nice. What are you going to wear with it?’

‘I was thinking of that black and lace top with the satin trim and…’

‘Mmm, a bit fussy,’ said Patsy, doubtfully, stopping Kirsty dead in her tracks.

‘What?’ she said, her heart sinking. She sat down abruptly on the bed beside the skirt. Never mind knowing how to behave on a date, she wasn’t even capable of dressing herself for one.

‘Do you want to know what I think?’ said Patsy and ploughed on, without waiting for an answer. ‘I think it would look fabulous with a plain black polo neck. You know the ribbed, cotton type. Have you got one?’

‘Yes…’ said Kirsty, cheering a little in the face of Patsy’s enthusiasm. She got up and opened the wardrobe door. Thankfully the polo neck was there and not in the laundry basket.

‘Now imagine it with one of your big funky necklaces, a big black belt and your black suede boots. The ones with the wedge heels. And that grey fur gilet of yours. Better still wrap the belt round the gilet – that’s very now.’

Kirsty hastily assembled a mental picture of the ensemble and breathed a sigh of relief. It was chic without being old-fashioned and she knew exactly which handcrafted necklace she would wear. Along with a chunky belt (the one with the big silver buckle, designed by one of her old pals from college), she would be true to her bohemian instincts. ‘Patsy,’ she said, ‘you’re so right. The last thing I need is a fashion disaster on top of my nerves.’

‘You’d look great whatever you wore, Kirsty. You’re so pretty. But in that you’ll be absolutely knock-out.’ Kirsty smiled into the phone, grateful for the blessing of her wonderful friend. There was a short pause and then Patsy spoke again. ‘Where are the boys?’

‘Dorothy and Harry have them for a sleepover. They collected them just after lunch. They were planning to take them to the pictures in Ballymena and then for a McDonald’s.’

‘The boys will love that,’ chuckled Patsy. ‘Harry and Dorothy are fabulous, aren’t they?’

‘The best,’ said Kirsty. She held her in-laws in the highest regard. The only complaint she had about them was that, in their generosity and love, they could sometimes be a bit suffocating. But that was a small price to pay for the unstinting affection they lavished on the boys, and the practical help they had selflessly given Kirsty over the last three years – and continued to give, without thought of return.

‘What do they think of you going on a date?’ said Patsy.

Kirsty paused. She worked at an old splat of white paint on the window with her fingernail. It wouldn’t budge. ‘I haven’t told them. They think I’m just going round to Janice’s.’

‘Oh,’ said Patsy, and there was an awkward silence which Kirsty felt obliged to fill.

‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell them the truth. I just feel a bit awkward about it. I know it’s ridiculous.’ She sank down on the bed again, careful not to sit on the skirt.

‘You’re not being unfaithful to Scott, you know, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Patsy.

‘It’s not that…’

‘And Scott would want you to be happy, Kirsty.’

‘I know,’ agreed Kirsty, with a long sigh. She wrapped her legs around each other until she was all tied up in a knot. ‘But it’s his parents…Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I just don’t want to hurt them.’

‘You should tell them. They’re going to have to face up to the fact that you’re only thirty-six, for heaven’s sake. Wish I was thirty-six again,’ she said wistfully and then went on, ‘it’s only natural for you to want a life of your own. Sooner or later you’re going to meet someone and everything will change.’

‘I think that’s what they’re afraid of. I think they like things the way they are. And part of me likes it too. I’ve got used to living this celibate life within my comfort zone.’

‘You deserve more than that, Kirsty,’ said Patsy. ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’

‘I won’t. And that’s why I’ve agreed to this date tonight. Much as I’m dreading it.’

‘It’ll be fine,’ reassured Patsy. ‘Just try to relax and be yourself.’ And then, ‘Oh, gotta go. Someone’s come into the gallery. Now you go out and have a blast! And don’t forget we’re meeting at No.11 on Wednesday night. You can tell us all about it then. Bye.’

Kirsty threw the phone on the bed and dropped her chin onto her chest, rubbing her forehead with the heels of her hands. Patsy was right – she ought to tell Harry and Dorothy. Ballyfergus was a small place and it would be unfair if they heard it from someone else. She reminded herself that she was perfectly entitled to go out with whoever she liked. As a widow for three years, she was a free woman, for heaven’s sake. So why did she feel so uncomfortable with the whole idea? And why so very guilty?

She sighed and stood up. Dusk was already starting to fall, bringing to an end the short winter day. The rest of the afternoon and early evening lay ahead of her, long and empty with nothing to do but get ready. As a single mother, Kirsty wasn’t used to luxurious stretches of time to herself. Other women might have revelled in the opportunity for some serious pampering; Kirsty was at a loss what to do with herself.

She went over to the window, put her palms on the cold glass and stared out at the deadened garden, prettily shrouded in a blanket of hard frost. The street-lamps came on, illuminating a circle of tarmac at the side of Kirsty’s property, which glistened with frost. The garden was plunged into darkness. Little whorls of ice began to form on the outside of the window. She shivered, flicked on the bedside lamp and closed the curtains.

She thought of Janice’s luxurious en-suite bathroom and the rows of exquisite glass bottles that lined the shelves above the bath. Janice knew how to pamper herself. Kirsty could learn a thing or two from her.

‘Right,’ she said and clapped her hands together. ‘Let’s do this properly, girl.’

She ran a scented bath, lit some candles and put on a Mariah Carey CD. She removed her flaking nail polish and, when the bath was ready, peeled off her clothes and got into it. She eased herself in slowly. The water was hot – just at that exquisite point between pleasure and pain. The sensation when her shoulders submerged was like a lover’s caress. She closed her eyes, concentrated on the music and tried to cultivate a positive frame of mind.

At the very worst her date could be a complete bore but she would still have a good time with Janice and Keith – they were always good fun. However, first she would have to get off this guilt trip she was on. Easier said than done. Because her guilt about dating stemmed not from concern for Harry and Dorothy, or for her children, or because she felt that she was betraying Scott’s memory.

It arose from the fact that, for the last three years, Kirsty had been living a lie. Cast in the role of heartbroken, grieving widow, it was a mantle she wore uncomfortably, especially around Harry and Dorothy, who were so clearly devastated by the death of their beloved only son. When Scott died Kirsty had been traumatised, there was no doubt about that. She’d ended up on tranquillisers for a full six months after the accident.

But the crucial difference between her and Scott’s parents was that, at the time of Scott’s death, she no longer loved him. For a while after he died, she tried to convince herself that she had – it would’ve made all that well-meaning sympathy easier to bear. She tried so hard that she almost came to believe her own fantasy that they had just been going through a bad patch. Witnesses to her anguish at the time put it down to grief – she wore herself out trying to re-write the past.

But, with the passage of time, she was forced to concede that she was kidding herself. She had loved Scott once, with a passion. But, at the time of his death, their relationship was on the brink of falling apart. There were no histrionics or arguments. No violence, door slamming or walking out. Just insidious bickering between two people who had drifted apart and no longer had anything to say to each other. They had not slept together for six months before Scott’s death. The only thing that had kept them together was the children.

Falling out of love with Scott hadn’t been her fault, she told herself regularly, even though she felt guilty about it every day. Scott had changed. Not in any dramatic way, not so that other people would notice. He wasn’t a monster – he provided for his family and he’d never laid a hand on her or the children in anger. But he’d come to hate working in the family business and, in his frustration, he’d hinted more than once that if it weren’t for the responsibilities of marriage and children, he’d be long gone. He never made it clear if he meant long gone from Ballyfergus, or long gone from her and the kids. He was grumpy and irritable at home – and nothing she did seemed to make it better.

Instead of finding release in talking to her, he found it in cycling, and increasingly he took to going off on long weekends. She’d tried to get him to do more family-oriented things instead but he was never interested. She was truly shocked the time she took the kids to Belfast Zoo, on her own again, and realised that she hadn’t thought about him all day. It was then that she realised she no longer loved him.

Harry and Dorothy heaped constant praise on her for her courage and strength, for supporting them and the children when she herself was mourning the loss of her husband. And she was torn between the desire to tell them the truth about her and Scott so that she could assuage her terrible guilt and the need not to. Clearly, more harm would come from telling them than good. They were heartbroken enough as it was. It would’ve been pure selfishness to add to their misery.

And so she told no-one, not even her closest friends. Because to do so would’ve meant disparaging Scott’s character. It would’ve meant saying, directly or indirectly, that he was flawed. And Kirsty was simply not prepared to do that – she would not tarnish his memory. It was all she had of him now. She would not talk ill of the dead. Plus it wasn’t all Scott’s fault; she must bear some of the responsibility too. Or perhaps no-one was to blame. Sometimes these things just happened.

Luckily, she had only spoken in the vaguest terms about her marriage difficulties to her closest friends. But if they had ever suspected all was not well, as soon as Scott died, no-one asked her about the state of her marriage again.

Kirsty slid her head under the water and tried to block out these thoughts. She was beating herself up over something which she could not change. And much as she would’ve loved to offload her guilt so that she could feel better, doing so would mean hurting Harry or Dorothy, both of whom she loved. She would not do that. Painful and lonely as it was, she would keep her own counsel.

The bath water was getting cool – it was time to get out and have a shower. From experience, Kirsty knew she could not wash her hair in the bath. The bath milk would leave a residue on her hair, which would result in lank, dull locks. Pampering, Kirsty concluded, was hard work.

Three hours later Kirsty was buffed and polished, painted and combed, fragrant with perfume, her shabby nails transformed into dark red talons. She stood in front of the mirror in the outfit Patsy had advised and felt pleased with the result. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was smooth and shiny, her face well made-up, her clothes immaculate. Her wedge boots added an extra two inches to her height making her look slimmer than she was, though she had never been bothered by her weight. She was a size twelve and the same weight, more or less, that she had been in her early twenties. She smiled at her reflection. Patsy would be proud of her.

And she was proud of herself for getting this far. Here she was, about to go on a date and, though it was unlikely, there was a chance that this man might be The One. The possibility made Kirsty feel alive again. The doorbell went.

‘Wish me luck,’ she said to her reflection, and smiled.

Izzy sat at Clare’s kitchen table. A High School Musical lever arch file was propped against the glass fruit bowl, opened to a page of notes untidily scrawled in blue ink. On the table lay a jotter, the virgin pages as yet unsoiled by Izzy’s hand. Alongside the jotter was a Hannah Montana pencil case – Izzy chewed on the end of a matching pencil. Everything of Izzy’s had to be themed. When Clare was her age – God, was that really twenty-three years ago? – she didn’t have a branded item in her battered denim satchel. How times had changed.

Simultaneously, with her right elbow resting on the table, Izzy twirled a lock of blonde hair between her forefinger and thumb, the tiny earpieces of an iPod jammed in her ears. Izzy insisted that music helped her concentrate. But, as far as Clare could see, the expression on her pretty face was more vacant than inspired. This, ostensibly, was Izzy doing her homework. Clare bit her lip. Izzy was Liam’s twelve-year-old daughter by his first marriage and, much as she wanted to, it wasn’t Clare’s place to tell the child what to do.

Clare rolled her eyes at her daughter Rachel, just four months shy of her second birthday. She was seated happily on her booster seat eating beans and toast from a blue bowl with her fingers, a yellow plastic spoon discarded on the floor. Rachel grinned back joyfully, her face and hands smeared with tomato sauce. Four-year-old Josh had already wandered off to watch Space Pirates on CBeebies, his half-eaten meal abandoned. She really ought to wrestle him back to the table, thought Clare, but tonight she just didn’t have the energy. She cleared away his plate.

Clare bent down to load Josh’s plate and cutlery into the dishwasher and shook her head, torn between the urge to smile at Izzy’s idleness and the urge to intervene.

But, as far as Izzy was concerned, any interference by Clare was a violation of her human rights. As she frequently pointed out, Clare was not her mother and had no right to tell her what to do. Which made life very awkward, for she was sometimes in Clare’s sole care. Like now, on a dark Wednesday evening, with Liam not yet home from work.

Clare glanced at the clock. She bit her lip, stole a sideways peek at Izzy, and wished Liam would hurry up and get there. And not just because of Izzy. She wanted him to take over from her so that she could get ready to go out with her friends. He had been late almost every night these last two weeks. Clare shook her head and let out a long sigh – so much for the New Year’s resolution. What a joke that was, she thought. So far her attempts to paint had been laughable. She’d managed a few hours here and there but, without more support from Liam, she really couldn’t see how on earth she was going to realise her dream.

Izzy drummed her pencil on the jotter in time to whatever music she was listening to, the page still blank. Clare certainly wasn’t going to say anything and risk getting her head bitten off. Well, if she didn’t get down to it, thought Clare a touch spitefully, Zoe, Izzy’s mother, would just have to supervise her homework when she got home.

Clare thought Zoe got off lightly. Liam had Izzy three weekends out of four, plus every Wednesday night. Izzy usually stayed over on Wednesdays, but not tonight. Liam had to be in Londonderry for nine the next morning so he wouldn’t be able to take her to school. Wistfully, Clare wondered what Zoe did with all that spare time on her hands.

‘Rachel!’ squealed Izzy all of a sudden. In one fluid movement, she leapt from her place at the table like a scalded cat and flattened herself against the fridge door.

At the same time, out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw Rachel send her bowl flying off the table.

‘Shit!’ she cried and instinctively lunged from sink to table, her right hand outstretched in an attempt to thwart disaster. Amazingly, she made contact with the bowl but, slippery with sauce, it slid out of her grip, flew upwards into the air and then descended, disgorging its contents over her. It continued its descent to the floor where the melamine dish made a satisfying crack on a ceramic floor tile. Rachel clapped her hands in delight.

Stunned, Clare looked down at her just-clean-on blue polka-dot apron, now splattered with baked beans. Sauce dripped from her hand. It was everywhere – sprayed across the table, over Izzy’s jotter and pencil case, up the cream wall and on the skirting board. It was splashed across the floor like blood – splattered up the chair legs and on her beautiful cream Shaker-style kitchen units. It was amazing just how much coverage you could get from half a cup of Heinz tomato sauce. Miraculously, Izzy had escaped unmarked.

Izzy stood shoeless, both hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She looked from Rachel to Clare and back again. Skinny legs, encased in opaque black tights, emerged from beneath her minuscule black skirt. She wore an Argyle multi-coloured knitted tank-top over an open-necked white shirt, this rag-tag ensemble passing for a school uniform.

Suddenly Izzy began to laugh, her delicate hands still covering her mouth, her slight frame bending with mirth like a sapling in strong wind.

‘Oh, Rachel,’ she cried, removing her hands, her face now red with hilarity. ‘You are a naughty girl.’ And she laughed again, holding her right side this time, a child once more, her usual attitude forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Josh appeared in the hall doorway, drawn by the commotion. He pointed at Clare’s head and smiled. Just then a cold baked bean slid down her nose. She caught it with her tongue and ate it. Josh squealed with delight. Rachel battered her small fists on the table and shrieked with joy. Their high-pitched voices filled the room like Christmas bells.