Best of Friends

‘Shay’s giving out yards about having to buy a dinner jacket,’ said Gwen when they were both settled in her car and driving at a sedate pace down Lizzie’s street. ‘I told him to shut his trap and stop whingeing. I said you’d come with me if he didn’t. That shut him up.’

Lizzie grinned. Gwen and Shay had already warmly invited her to go with them, saying she hadn’t had a holiday for years and she’d be welcome.

‘You don’t want me along,’ Lizzie insisted. ‘You’ve both been saving for this for years and it’s special.’ She didn’t add that as well as being completely broke she hated to feel like the third wheel, and even Gwen and Shay, who hardly qualified for love’s young dream and who bickered amiably twenty-four hours a day, could do without a gooseberry. The world seemed very coupley these days and Lizzie felt like a gooseberry a lot of the time.

‘Did I tell you about the jumper I got in Marks?’ Gwen continued. ‘Pale blue ribbed cotton. The girl at the till said it was very Ralph Lauren, whoever he is when he’s at home. I told her I was going on a cruise. She was dead jealous, I can tell you. Everyone is jealous!’

In the shopping centre, Gwen headed straight for the sort of glossy clothes shop she’d never stepped into before in her life. She bypassed sensible coats and tweedy skirts for the shimmering evening wear. Within minutes, she was wearing a royal-blue floor-length jersey that clung to her ample curves with the shop’s three sales assistants standing around discussing how much the skirt needed to be taken up.

‘I’m going on a cruise, you see,’ Gwen informed them all gravely. ‘This needs to be perfect.’

It took ten minutes and lots of humming and hawing to get it perfect.

‘It mustn’t be too long or you won’t be able to tango,’ Lizzie said, her face serious.

The three assistants’ eyes widened.

‘She’s a marvellous dancer,’ Lizzie added. ‘And as for her husband…’

The blue jersey column began to shake with laughter. Shay had last danced at his own wedding and had refused to put a toe on any dance floor ever since.

‘Don’t mind my sister,’ Gwen warned. ‘She’s a menace. Tango indeed. Who was in that Last Tango film? Burt Reynolds, wasn’t it? And there was some furore about margarine, was it? How can a bit of margarine have caused so much fuss? I don’t know. Although it’s hard getting grease marks out of clothes…’

Lizzie kept her head down.

By the time they left, the sales assistants and Gwen had decided that the royal blue would be perfect for the captain’s dinner, and that the silvery grey scarf would look great with the long black skirt and pale blue crepe blouse.

‘Imagine me at the captain’s dinner,’ sighed Gwen. ‘Who’d have thought Shay and me would ever be on a cruise?’

‘You’ll be the star of the ship,’ Lizzie said fondly, linking her arm through her sister’s. ‘That royal blue will be gorgeous, just perfect.’ And then she stopped. She and Myles had never been on a cruise. Now they never would together…Gwen was the one sailing into uncharted waters, the one who’d know all about tipping the staff on the ship and what the midnight buffet was like. Lizzie was left in the shadows.

‘You’ll have to tell me all about it,’ Lizzie said, rallying. ‘I want a detailed account of everything, from how big the cabin is to what the style is like at night.’

‘You could have come, you know,’ Gwen said again.

‘Nonsense,’ said Lizzie briskly. ‘Haven’t I so much to do here? Debra’s wedding is only round the corner and the organisation takes up so much time.’

Gwen, who had two sons and had managed to get them married without any fuss from either side, held her tongue about what she privately thought about Debra. The truth, Gwen knew, was that Lizzie couldn’t afford to go on a cruise with her daughter’s extravagant demands to pay for.

A cup of coffee revived them both and Lizzie began to relate the latest tale of the wedding.

‘I haven’t spoken to Myles about the extra cost but know he won’t mind,’ Lizzie finished. ‘We both want this to be perfect for Debra and if a different bridesmaid’s dress makes it perfect, then so be it.’

Gwen regarded her younger sister solemnly. Their mother had been a great woman for what she called ‘plain speaking’.

‘Blunt as hell,’ Lizzie and Gwen used to agree. Both had made conscious efforts to live their lives without resorting to such bluntness. In Lizzie’s case, this had translated into a gentleness with other people and a sharp sense of intuition, although this was strangely lacking when it came to her own immediate family, her sister fondly thought.

While Gwen knew herself to be straightforward, she always made an effort not to hurt anyone with her remarks. But today, watching good, kind Lizzie making a fool out of herself with that spoiled brat of a daughter of hers, Gwen itched to speak plainly.

‘I hate to see you both spend so much money on this wedding,’ she said, trying to be delicate.

‘If you can’t spend money on your only daughter’s wedding, then what can you spend it on?’ said Lizzie easily.

‘But, Lizzie –’ Gwen broke off, not wanting to give a speech along the lines of her mother’s: if Debra was a decent kid, she’d understand that her parents didn’t have much cash to spare and would tailor her plans accordingly. Did Debra have any idea how much penny-pinching had gone on to give her this big, glitzy wedding?

‘I’d love Debra to have a big day too,’ said Gwen, trying her best to find some middle line without being too critical. ‘But money does come into it, Lizzie, and maybe you should tell Debra that you can’t afford to spend quite so much…’

‘Stop worrying,’ replied Lizzie equably. ‘Course we can afford it. Debra deserves her big day.’

That was what was wrong with her sister, Gwen thought. Lizzie had so much time for other people that she neglected herself. She hadn’t even noticed what was happening in her own marriage. Now, she poured her energy into the kids or, more realistically, Debra, since Joe was away and, anyhow, didn’t need looking after. There was nothing else in her life.

‘Why don’t you come with us on the cruise?’ Gwen said urgently. ‘There’s still time to book. They always have cancellations, and you never know.’

‘No, Gwen,’ said her sister firmly. ‘This is your big holiday. And besides,’ she pulled her coat from the back of the café chair, ‘I can’t afford it. Next year I’ll have my holiday of a lifetime and scandalise you all by learning exotic dancing or something!’

‘Shay has a bit put by for a rainy day,’ insisted Gwen. ‘You could pay us back. I’d love you to have a break.’

‘Thanks but no thanks. I told you, Gwen, next year,’ said Lizzie. ‘Next year will be my year.’

She shot her sister a strong, happy smile but it took some doing. In her heart, Lizzie didn’t think next year was going to be her year any more than this one was. She was so firmly in a rut that she’d need climbing equipment to get out. She had absolutely no idea how to solve the problem, but she did know that spending money she didn’t have would not help.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_f98d7707-8984-5269-8375-f98b946d99d6)

The other travellers boarding flight NR 706 from Chicago to Cork that Saturday morning watched the tall elegant young couple with interest. They were definitely both somebody, even though they wore comfortable faded jeans and didn’t make a fuss or anything when there was a horrendous queue down the gangway because the plane was delayed.

Martine Brady, flying home to Cork after a colder-than-expected month in the States staying with her sister, watched them enviously. She hadn’t seen a single famous person in all her time here. Not even a glimpse of Oprah, and she was supposed to be Chicagoan through and through. Martine, five people behind the glamorous couple in the queue, and bored, watched them with naked curiosity.

The woman was someone from the television, for sure. Her auburn hair was glossier than a Kentucky thoroughbred’s coat, her fine-boned face was clear-skinned and subtly made up. And that camel overcoat she wore to keep out the Chicago chill was definitely cashmere. Martine would have loved a coat like that, though you had to be tall and slim to wear it well. And rich. A newsreader, that was it. She looked like a newsreader – all polished and intelligent, even though she couldn’t have been but a few years older than Martine’s twenty-five. She wasn’t a movie star, Martine decided. Movie stars were always perfectly beautiful and this woman wasn’t. Her nose was too big and her face was just a bit too long. She was more interesting-looking than beautiful. The man was good-looking but not quite as polished. His coat was a bulky navy greatcoat that would have dwarfed most men but he was tall and broad enough to get away with it. His hair was jet black and cut close to his skull. Maybe he was some famous sportsman Martine didn’t recognise – a footballer or something. Those American footballers were all built like tanks. They were certainly Americans, that was for definite. Rich American women had a certain, unmistakable gloss to them, and Martine wondered how you could recreate it back home. All those manicures and visits to get your hair blow-dried every five minutes.

The queue moved and the couple boarded the plane. As they stepped on, the man smiled at his partner to let her go first, an excited smile that made it entirely clear to Martine that the couple weren’t married at all but were business people going on a trip and they had more than business in mind. The woman’s eyes gleamed as she smiled back at him. Bingo! thought Martine. She imagined dinner in fancy restaurants and then afterwards, the lure of the office romance would be too much for them and they’d end up in one bedroom, drinking champagne and trying not to answer the phone because it would be someone from home calling and the guilt would kill them and…

‘Your seat number, please?’ asked the stewardess.

Martine dragged her eyes back from the business-class section where the couple had just been shown to their seats.

‘Fifty-six,’ she said, returning to the real world.

‘Right-hand side, down the back,’ smiled the stewardess.

‘Down the back,’ repeated Martine. One day, one day, she’d be sitting up the front just like that woman with the gleaming copper hair and the gorgeous companion.

Erin took off her new cashmere coat and stroked it with something approaching awe. It was the most beautiful item of clothing she’d ever owned in her whole life and she still shuddered to think how much it had cost. Greg had arrived home with it the previous night, exquisitely folded in acid-free tissue paper in a huge Bloomingdale’s box.

‘A going-away present to say thank you for coming with me to Ireland,’ he said, kissing her.

‘This must have cost an arm and several legs,’ Erin breathed as she slipped on the coat. ‘It’s gorgeous, Greg.’ She looked at herself in the mirror of the wardrobe, which, being fitted, was one of the few pieces of furniture now left in the apartment since everything had been shipped the day before. The coat flattered her slim figure, transforming her instantly from an ordinary woman in jeans and a sweatshirt into a lady who looked as if she wore designer labels right down to her underwear.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she said again, ‘but we can’t afford it.’