Best of Friends

Debra’s much-vaunted sensitivity wasn’t evident now her mother needed it.

‘It’s been five years, Mum,’ she said matter-of-factly after Lizzie had sobbed her heart out while telling the story. ‘You have to move on.’

How could her mother be so selfish, anyhow? She, Debra, was the one who needed support. She was the one who was organising a wedding, single-handedly almost, and coping with all sorts of crises. Barry’s stupid sister had finally been persuaded into the expensive bridesmaid’s dress but due to some frantic comfort eating, the dress – violet taffeta with a scooped neck edged with violet silk rosebuds – was now too tight. Sandra would need a shoehorn and Vaseline to get her into it. Debra had offered her some laxatives but Sandra had turned her snub nose up at them. Well, if she wanted to look like Miss Piggy in a marquee, that was her business. Debra vowed that the flower girls would station themselves in front of Sandra for the bridesmaids’ photos. How could her mother be making such a fuss with all this going on? Didn’t she realise that the most important day of Debra’s life was in less than four months?

Gwen had been much more practical. ‘Come on the cruise with me and Shay,’ she’d urged again. ‘We’ll lend you the money. You might meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Although,’ Gwen added thoughtfully, ‘I hear the ratio of women to men is two to one on this cruise, so I might have to work hard to hold on to Shay!’

‘Running away isn’t the answer,’ Lizzie said dully, not even amused by the notion of any woman other than Gwen being keen on Shay. The idea of running away was actually very appealing but she was terribly broke and the leaky roof in the kitchen was getting worse. ‘I’m fine, Gwen, honestly.’

Although Gwen could see that her sister was anything but fine, she realised that Lizzie needed to be left to lick her wounds in peace.

In an unguarded moment, Lizzie told the truth to Clare Morgan, who couldn’t fail to notice how miserable Lizzie was at work, and who’d asked if everything was OK.

‘You mustn’t let that get to you,’ Clare said briskly when she’d heard. ‘It’s a shock when your ex moves on but I hope you haven’t been harbouring hopes of getting back together, Lizzie. That never works. You’ve a busy social life, though, haven’t you? You don’t need him. Get out there and have fun. You’re in your prime, Lizzie. Don’t become old before your time just because it’s easier to sink into lethargy.’

‘Yes,’ said Lizzie weakly, wishing she hadn’t been quite so successful in her attempts to convince Clare that she too was a divorced, free and single woman. Clare was a go-getting sort of person and would never understand that Lizzie’s life hadn’t moved on since Myles had moved out. Everything was still exactly the same except now she cooked for one.

The phone in the surgery rang and Clare put her hand on it but didn’t pick up the receiver. ‘Lizzie, life’s too short to waste it thinking about what might have been. Look at all the people who come through this surgery who aren’t going to make it, like poor Maurice Pender. Things don’t look good for him and he’d do anything to have life stretching ahead of him.’ She picked up the phone.

‘I know,’ said Lizzie as she left Clare alone to talk to her patient, but she was only saying that she understood the doctor’s point. She felt sorry for poor Mr and Mrs Pender but even that didn’t dull her own misery.

At home that evening, Lizzie sat down in front of the soaps with chicken and pasta on a tray on her lap. Somehow, she couldn’t concentrate on the television. Clare Morgan’s words kept exploding into her consciousness like a nagging headache that wouldn’t go away.

Don’t become old before your time just because it’s easier to sink into lethargy.

Lethargy was just what Lizzie was in the mood for. She felt too down to want to make any decisions, but perhaps it was time for decisions. A new life or the comfortable but lonely old one? It was like being a heroine at a crossroads in a weird fairy story. In one direction lay middle age with panty girdles, beige cardigans and big plaid skirts like the ones her granny used to wear. In the other lay a new life with men like Myles, the ones who’d been trapped in unhappy marriages and were only waiting for a quick sail around the harbour on a 24-footer before leaping into bed with someone new.

But in fairy stories, there was always a sign about which road to take. Cute elves would appear singing mystically and pointing their elvish fingers, or the only rabbit in the company would twitch its whiskers and refuse to go in the direction of the big dark tower with the flames pouring out of the top. In real life, the choice was murkier. And there were no signposts.

How did you know which road to take?

And if she took the one without the granny underpinnings, what hope did she have of attracting anything in trousers? Lizzie put her tray down and stared at herself critically in the big mirror over the fireplace. She’d never been able to do anything with her shaggy hair. Her face wasn’t actually that lined, mainly because of the oily, olive skin that had tortured her with spots when she was a teenager. She liked her merry brown eyes, but hated the rosy cheeks that always made her look enthusiastic instead of pale and interesting.

And her boobs, once one of her best attributes, were no longer what could be described as perky. To cheer herself up, she thought of the joke of the ninety-nine-year-old woman who wanted to shoot herself in the heart, was told it was to the right of her left nipple and ended in hospital with a gunshot wound to her left knee. The same could be said for this forty-nine-year-old, Lizzie thought ruefully.

She sat back down and flicked through the channels until she came to a taut medical drama she liked. Lots of blood, trauma and pain. Other people’s pain. Excitement was much easier to handle, Lizzie reflected, if you got it through the tube rather than in your own life. But sitting at home and box-watching did rather mean that you missed out on Life, with a big L.

CHAPTER EIGHT (#ulink_2884149c-6aa4-5892-92d9-85e7938c51b0)

Greg and Erin Kennedy were not the sort of people to let life pass them by – not when they could go out and grab it firmly with both hands.

When Greg’s mum developed really bad flu and the planned Kennedy family reunion scheduled for Dunmore had to be put off for a few weeks, Greg and Erin decided to take advantage of the day’s holiday Greg had taken.

They quickly booked a small hotel in Glengarriff, packed their walking gear in the suitcase along with some glad rags, and set off for a weekend of sightseeing and climbing mountains.

It was two years since they’d last done any climbing. Greg pointed out that a week’s hiking along the Appalachian Trail didn’t count. ‘That wasn’t a trek, that was an amble through the woods!’ he said. The long weekend in the Rockies was their last serious trek, in his opinion.

Erin remembered the ache in her muscles after the trip to the Rockies and she hadn’t expected the same level of sheer exhaustion in the beautiful Kerry mountains. But, somehow, she felt worn out before they’d even begun.

On Saturday morning, by the time Greg decided it was OK to stop for a break, Erin felt tired enough to lie down and sleep.

‘Come on, slowcoach. You’re nearly there. Just another few yards. I’ve got the chocolate opened…’

‘If you eat it all, I’ll kill you,’ panted Erin as she hauled herself up the steep excuse for a path, side-stepping sheep droppings shaped bizarrely like tiny bunches of grapes, to arrive at the rocks where Greg was laying out their picnic.

‘I am so wrecked. How high did you say this mountain was?’

She slumped down onto a small rock, stretching out her legs and leaning against a bigger rock, with her rucksack as a cushion for her back. This was ridiculous; she couldn’t believe how exhausted she felt. Where was the athletic woman who used to daydream about the pair of them tackling something serious, like Everest?

Greg handed her a square of chocolate and then poured out a plastic cup of coffee from the Thermos.

‘High enough to work off all this food on the way down,’ he said, unwrapping the hefty cheese and ham sandwiches the landlady of the Mountain Arms Hotel had given them that morning before they’d set off. ‘Just look at the view. Isn’t it fantastic?’

Erin sighed with pleasure. They weren’t at the top yet, but already acres of steep slope stretched out beneath them, covered with waves of pinky purple azaleas that flowered amid the gorse and bracken. To the right were the brooding shapes of more of the Kerry mountains, splayed haphazardly northwards towards Kenmare. The landscape below looked beautiful, untamed and desolate. Only the telephone poles and the odd house tucked away in the valley among the trees spoke of civilisation.

Far below lay the road where they’d parked the car – a rackety grey road just wide enough for two vehicles to pass, but from this great height, it looked nothing more than a winding dark line on a child’s picture.

Despite the early April sunshine, which made everyone in Glengarriff insist it was ‘a fabulous day for the time of year’, it was cold on the mountain and Erin was glad of the steaming hot coffee. She was wearing a heavily padded skiing jacket, lined hiking trousers, thick socks with her walking boots, and a hat that was squashing her ponytailed hair, but she could still feel the chilly wind.

When they’d eaten everything in his rucksack, Greg sat beside Erin on her rock and put his arm round her. He hadn’t bothered to shave that morning and when he rubbed his cheek against hers, she felt the spiky beard rough against her face.

The combination of designer stubble, a soft grey hat pulled down over his hair and the pale sun glinting against his sunglasses gave him the look of some glamorous French skier who’d just come down a black run.

‘Wasn’t this a great idea to come away for the weekend?’ he said.

Erin kissed him on the cheek. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘We really needed the break. I’m sorry about your poor mum, but it’s nice to get away all the same, isn’t it? And we can have the big family reunion soon.’

‘Erin,’ began Greg, ‘we’ve been here nearly a month…’ He paused.

Erin stilled. She knew what was coming. Greg didn’t disappoint.

‘Don’t you think it’s time to visit your family or at least make contact?’

She said nothing but dug out another chocolate bar from the side pocket of her rucksack. Did he really think she could just phone up after nine years and think everyone would be thrilled to hear her voice?

‘OK, OK, forget I said anything,’ Greg apologised. ‘I don’t want to ruin the day.’

‘No, don’t,’ begged Erin. ‘We’re here for the weekend to forget about everything: the pressures of your job, the non-pressures of my non-existent job and the horrible rented house. And I know you’re on the rental agency’s case and they’re going to find us a mansion soon, but it is horrible.’

‘Right, we’re here to forget,’ he agreed, and took a big slab of chocolate. ‘I think we’ve been sitting here too long. I’m getting cold and stiff.’

‘Me too,’ admitted Erin. ‘Can we phone mountain rescue and get them to helicopter us back?’

Greg pretended to think about this. ‘I think they prefer to be called out in genuine emergencies and not to airlift lazy, fat tourists down to their cars so they can head back to their hotels for more Irish coffees.’

‘Who are you calling fat?’ Erin ripped the last piece of chocolate from Greg’s hand and shoved it in her mouth with a wicked smirk.

‘Oh, not you! But since you’ve eaten everything, we’d better go.’ Greg got to his feet and put out a hand to haul Erin up. ‘I’m afraid we’ve a bit further up to go before we’re on the way down.’