Just Between Us

While Holly sat in the tiny conservatory off the kitchen, Stella opened a bottle of wine that had been cooling in the fridge.

‘It always feels weird to smoke in the house,’ Holly said, lighting up. ‘I was so used to hanging out my bedroom window and blowing smoke outside.’

‘I wish you’d give up,’ Stella said gingerly.

‘How could I cope with Aunt Adele at Christmas without nicotine?’ laughed Holly.

‘Wait till I tell Tara what Adele gave you,’ said Stella. ‘She’ll howl.’

‘She mightn’t howl at all,’ pointed out Holly. ‘She’s probably getting another steam iron or a saucepan from Gloria as we speak.’

‘In-laws, yuck,’ shuddered Stella. ‘That’s the problem with marriage – you get saddled with a whole new batch of people.’

‘Not my problem,’ said her sister.

‘Nor mine,’ replied Stella thoughtfully.

That night in Four Winds, Tara dragged Finn off to bed halfway through the late-night Christmas film. He’d been snoring for at least the last twenty minutes of The Untouchables, although when she woke him, he insisted he was watching the film and that they hadn’t seen the best bit yet.

‘You were asleep,’ she hissed.

‘Wuzzn’t,’ he slurred. ‘Oh all right.’

Christmas at the Jeffersons’ had been a master class in Cold War tactics. Tara and Finn hadn’t emerged until after eleven that morning, which was the first mistake – Tara’s naturally. Finn was nursing a hangover and Tara was nursing a grievance over being in Four Winds in the first place. Arriving downstairs to find a prune-faced Gloria on her way out to church without her son and heir, Tara had managed an apology for being up so late.

Gloria was not full of Christian charity on Christ’s birthday. ‘Good morning, or should I say good afternoon,’ she sniped.

‘And Happy Christmas to you too, Gloria,’ said Tara sweetly.

The present-giving revealed that Gloria had outdone herself in the gift stakes this year, with Tiffany cuff links and an exquisite dress shirt for Finn and a sandwich toaster for Tara.

It had been downhill all the way from then, to the extent that Finn had made sure that the television in the den, the room which backed onto the dining room, was blaring loudly so that the sound of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang made up for the lack of conversation at the dinner table.

Making small talk while having one ear cocked for all her favourite tunes from the film, Tara wished she was in the den watching the TV instead.

After dinner, Gloria and Desmond piled on extra sweaters and coats to go for a walk in the December gloom. Finn, snug in the den with Tara and a fresh bottle of red wine, waved them off, saying he was too full of that fabulous dinner to walk anywhere.

‘Promise me that we can leave the country next Christmas,’ groaned Tara, positioning herself on the couch so that her feet were on Finn’s lap. He idly massaged her feet, giving in to a quick tickle now and then.

‘The Caribbean?’ he suggested.

‘We can camp out on the side of a mountain without a tent as long as we’re on our own,’ Tara said, then regretted being so blunt. ‘I didn’t mean that,’ she added, ‘it’s just that your mum and I…’ she tailed off.

‘Chill out, love,’ said Finn, reaching for his wine glass. ‘Christmas is the ultimate endurance test. I don’t know why the reality TV people haven’t made a game show where they stick a family in one house over Christmas and see how long they last before there’s bloodshed over who gets to pull the last cracker.’ He tickled her toes, then moved his fingers up to caress her calf. ‘I hate Christmas.’

But he shouldn’t hate Christmas, Tara reflected. The holiday wasn’t an endurance test at Kinvarra. She loved spending it with her family. How sad for Finn that he didn’t enjoy it with his family.

The only light relief came when Finn and Desmond dragged out the box of Trivial Pursuit and inveigled Tara to play with them.

‘What about your mother?’ Tara murmured to Finn.

‘She doesn’t like board games,’ he replied.

‘Count me in,’ Tara said loudly and settled down to see how many pieces of pie she could win.

By the time Desmond won, it was time for some of Gloria’s sandwiches with coffee and Tara, who thought she’d never be able to face food again, gamely managed two crustless triangles to be polite.

‘Do you not like spiced ham sandwiches, then?’ demanded Gloria.

Feeling like a foie gras goose, Tara took another sandwich and willed for the day to be over soon. At least tomorrow was the occasion of the drinks party, which meant Gloria would have a whole host of other people to be bitchy to and might forget about Tara.

‘I’ll tape the rest of The Untouchables,’ Desmond suggested as Finn and Tara headed for bed.

In their bedroom, Finn flopped onto the bed and began to crawl under the duvet fully dressed. ‘I’m wrecked,’ he groaned.

‘Finn, you’ve got to take your clothes off,’ complained Tara, trying to slip off his shoes.

‘I’m too tired,’ he said, not helping the undressing process by lying like a giant slug in the bed.

‘Cold sponge,’ warned Tara.

‘Not the sponge,’ said Finn, beginning to giggle.

He was still giggling when he sat up and let Tara pull off his shirt.

‘I love you, Tara Miller, d’ya know that?’ he said, kissing her drunkenly.

‘I love you too,’ she replied, ‘although I don’t know why.’

He leaned against her, nuzzling into her shoulder, making murmuring noises.

‘Finn, please stand up so we can take your trousers off,’ she said.

But Finn was asleep. Sighing, Tara finished undressing her husband and covered him with the duvet. Honestly, he was like an overgrown teenager sometimes. Only a big kid would drink too much at his parents’ house and have to be put to bed.

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_6424e7ab-048c-55db-b395-439d4875a725)

Stella’s fellow solicitor and colleague, Vicki, was insistent that she suffered from SAD. ‘Seasonal Affected Disorder,’ she repeated for Stella’s benefit. ‘It means I suffer from depression caused by not enough light. And look,’ Vicki gestured out of the office kitchen window where a square of foggy January sky could be seen through the grubby glass, ‘look at that weather.’

‘It’s called winter,’ Stella said, taking the milk from the fridge. Full fat, she realised, putting it back and reaching for the skimmed. Why had she eaten all those chocolates over Christmas? Her camel trousers, normally slightly loose, were biting into her belly reproachfully.

‘I hate January,’ Vicki moaned, pouring hot water onto her low-calorie chocolate drink. A statuesque redhead who was five foot nine in her fishnets, Vicki was always on a diet until about noon, when the thought of nothing but crispbread and low fat yoghurts made her abandon hopes to slither into a size fourteen.

‘Join the club,’ Stella said with a sigh.

Vicki looked at her friend in surprise. Stella was normally so cheerful. Nothing got her down: not torrential rain when they were rushing back from lunch with no umbrella, not clients from hell who demanded double attention and were late paying their fees, not even Mr McKenna, one of the senior partners and a creep who could put even Vicki off her food for a week with one lascivious leer down her blouse at her 38DDs.

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked.