Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 1: Lessons in Heartbreak, Once in a Lifetime, Homecoming

Get off the fucking phone in case my lover is trying to contact me!!! was what Izzie wanted to say. Instead, she went into professional mode.

‘Hi, Amanda. Recovered from New Mexico yet? And has Ivan sent over the photos from the shoot?’ she asked calmly.

At lunchtime, Izzie deliberately went out and had a sandwich in the diner she’d told Joe she loved most, in case he was waiting for her and wanted to see her. She sat in one of the front booths, forced to share with three suited guys because the place was so busy, and pretended to read a magazine, all the time aching for Joe to come in and drag her out on to the street.

I love you, I don’t care about anything else. I want to be with you, he’d say, and everyone would smile at this proof of true love on the streets of Noo Yawk, and it would all be perfect because he’d chosen her.

Wait, he’d beg. Please wait for me, Izzie. It will work out, I promise.

He didn’t turn up.

Izzie went back to work but couldn’t concentrate on anything, until she flicked through the Post and found an article about a benefit in the Museum of Natural History the following night.

The great and the good would be at it, the Post told her breathlessly, including Elizabeth Hansen, who was on the charity committee, and her husband, Joe, who was a major benefactor. Izzie could feel the blood draining from her head. She’d never fainted in her life but she might just faint now. Joe was going to this charity thing with Elizabeth after he’d sworn that he’d told Elizabeth they’d have to stop doing that. She’d been so hurt when he’d gone to the AIDS benefit the night after they made love.

‘I had to,’ he’d said.

‘If you live separate lives, you don’t have to!’ she’d yelled back.

‘I know, I’m sorry. I’ll tell her we can’t do that again. It’s just – she’s on lots of committees and there are lots of functions

‘Joe, if you and Elizabeth are over, then that’s fine,’ Izzie had said coldly. ‘If you’re not, get the hell out of my life.’

‘We’re over,’ he’d said. ‘Over. Promise. It will work out, Izzie, soon, I promise.’

‘I think I’ve got Carla’s flu,’ Izzie announced blindly, closing the Post. She just had to get out of the office where she jumped every time a phone rang.

Izzie had never attended a function at the museum, although she’d seen pictures in the papers and magazines and knew the form. The vast Romanesque steps spread majestically down to where the cars lined up, with fat red carpet laid for the rich to step on.

She stood with all the onlookers and waited, feeling crazier by the minute. It was just like being a celebrity-obsessed person waiting for their favourite movie star, standing in line in the rain and cold for just a glimpse of a person adored onscreen. Why would anyone do that? It was sad, such a sign of not having a life.

And then she thought of how sad she was: standing waiting for a glimpse of her lover and his wife, to see if she could detect the truth. She was pathetic.

Hating herself at that moment, Izzie turned, leaving the small crowd of onlookers, not thinking where she was going in her misery, and found herself close to a dark limo that was disgorging four passengers going to the gala.

Two men and two women, all with the waft of privilege and dollars around them. On one side of the limo were Joe and a blonde woman who could only be his wife. She looked better than she had in the Google pictures: thin, tall, with the racehorse legs these East Coast society women inherited from their mothers, and high, high shoes with the telltale red soles that marked them out as Christian Louboutins. Izzie had only one pair. They were things of beauty but too expensive for someone on her salary. She felt envy at a woman who wore them carelessly in the rain. And her clothes – Izzie gazed enviously at her clothes. Elizabeth wore a beautiful evening coat – tailored plum silk, definitely Lanvin, beyond fashionable. Of course, she wouldn’t be a bling bling taste-free person. As if anybody in Joe’s life could be that.

Izzie thought of the high-street copy of that same coat that hung in her own wardrobe: a knock-off she’d worn once with him and he’d said it was sexy but he preferred what was underneath, and he’d untied the big bow belt and they’d made love on the rug in her living room.

Hers had been cheap. Like her. She’d got a fake Lanvin, lots of pairs of pretend-Louboutins and a fake boyfriend. Which was just right for someone who was cheap.

Exactly then, Joe turned his face away from the rain and she knew without a doubt that he’d spotted her in the crowd. For a flicker of a second, their eyes met before he turned away. His face didn’t really alter, but she knew he’d seen her. Standing in the crowd like a dirty-faced urchin with her nose pressed up against the sweetshop window: looking at forbidden treasures.

His face was expressionless, and Izzie felt as if she was the cheapest whore on the planet.

So cheap, she’d been free. She should print cards and leave them in phone booths. For a good time, no fee, call Izzie Silver…Even joking couldn’t make it better.

His wife said something to him, and clutched his raincoated arm with her hand, a sparkly hand that glittered with a fat diamond the size of a robin’s egg. Tiffany, Izzie thought. Engagement ring or just cocktail ring? She wasn’t sure which finger it was on.

Joe instantly turned to Elizabeth, his head bent the way it bent when he talked to Izzie.

How could she have been so stupid?

He’d said he loved Elizabeth, that after twenty-four years, he still did, but that their relationship was over and that he wanted out. He’d said he needed and wanted Izzie.

Izzie had imagined that no man could love two people at the same time, simply because she wouldn’t have been able to. She’d assumed it was the same for him.

She was obviously wrong.

Joe could love his wife and simultaneously lie to and fuck Izzie. Simple as that.

Izzie turned away, furiously blinking back tears. This time, she wouldn’t cry. She was done crying over Joe. Falling for him had made her abandon all her principles. She’d known it was complicated, messy, but she’d gone out with him anyway.

She was as bad as those predatory women who hunted men, using anything to get a ring on their fingers. Izzie had thought she was above all that. It had turned out she was just as bad. At least they knew what they were doing, and she hadn’t. She was dumb as well as a stupid whore.

FIVE (#ulink_13fadf30-3477-5ed9-b585-37a31e49742c)

Lily Shanahan sat on a wooden bench in the tiny courtyard beside St Canice’s in Tamarin and let the April sunlight wash over her. It was nearly half ten and the courtyard was empty, apart from a couple of pigeons poking around the grey slab paving stones looking for crumbs. Everyone else was inside the church, listening to the gentle tones of Father Sean. Lily could hear the drone of the small Thursday-morning congregation murmuring along to the service.

She’d been on her way into the church when she’d felt a little light-headed and had a strange compulsion to sit outside in the sun instead, and worship another way.

You didn’t have to talk to God in a church. If He’d made the sun and the sky, it was only right to enjoy them. So she’d walked slowly to the wooden bench and decided she was taking a different sort of pew today.

God would understand. The church would be warm and the stuffiness might make her light-headedness worse. St Canice’s was architecturally very beautiful but flawed when it came to heat and cold. In the winter, it was freezer-like, elderly radiators notwithstanding. In the warmer months, it became a hothouse and many a bride had found that it was fatal to dress the church with wedding flowers the night before the wedding, as even the buds that liked heat wilted in the fierce warmth of the church and slumped in their arrangements on the day itself.

Once she’d settled herself on the bench, Lily took off her beige cotton hat and closed her eyes, turning her face to the sun. Before she’d left the house, she’d meant to use some of that expensive cream that Izzie had given her the last time she was home; marvellous stuff, Izzie had said.

‘Skin Replenish. Keeps wrinkles at bay. You should mind your skin, Gran.’

Eyelids still shut tight, Lily smiled at the memory. Izzie didn’t come home often enough these days. She was busy with her life in New York and, while Lily missed her, she was able to accept it. Lily’s job as a grandmother standing in for Alice, Izzie’s dead mother, had been to give her darling granddaughter roots and wings.

She used to say it to Izzie when Izzie got a fit of guilt over missing some big event in the Tamarin world:

‘Roots and wings, darling: that’s what love is,’ she’d murmur, and feel grateful that she had the strength to mean it and that the words comforted Izzie.

Besides, there was no point saying that type of thing if you whined when the wings part meant the person built their own life away from you. Lily had no time for people who liked spouting such truths but didn’t like living them. It was the hypocrisy she disliked; like telling Izzie to get on with her life and then being discontented because she did.

No, Lily wasn’t a woman for hypocrisy. Probably not a woman for expensive moisturiser either, she thought with a little chuckle.

Izzie’s precious cream felt beautiful on Lily’s skin when she actually used it, but she’d generally left the house before she remembered and she could never be bothered going back to apply it. At her age, time, gravity and life had done damage that no expensive cream could fix – unless there was alchemy at work in the pretty glass jar.

What was nice was that her granddaughter still thought her skin worth saving. Izzie, who worked with beautiful women with skin as velvety as newborn babies’, hadn’t written her off as an old woman.

Some people did – as if wrinkled skin was an invisibility cloak. Like the maids’ uniforms of so long ago, Lily thought wryly. She’d learned that early on. Once a person slipped on a servant’s garb, they faded into the background.

The maids’ uniforms in Rathnaree had been plain navy gabardine dresses with buttons up the back and a white collar that had to be laundered and starched to within an inch of its life. Lily’s mother, Mary, didn’t have to wear the same uniform because of her valued position as housekeeper and Lady Irene had provided her with two navy serge skirts – ‘From Harrods,’ Mary would say in awe at the very thought of owning a garment from a shop where the gentry themselves shopped.

Mary wore the skirts with pristine white blouses and a grey woollen cardigan.