Cathy Kelly 6-Book Collection: Someone Like You, What She Wants, Just Between Us, Best of Friends, Always and Forever, Past Secrets

That night, Hannah woke up at half two to the sound of someone at the front door. She shivered, feeling as if she was a kid again at the sound of her father’s key in the lock. You could never tell what sort of mood he’d be in: happy and giggly, or in one of his dark sombre moods when he blamed everyone but himself for the fact that he had no job and no future.

‘What about us? We’re your future and you’re not looking after us or Mam,’ Hannah always wanted to scream at him. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself and do something.’ She hated the way he’d wasted his life in a haze of alcohol.

Afraid he’d make noise and wake up the kids, she got up silently and went into the kitchen. She found him sitting on the floor, trying to take his shoes and socks off quietly.

‘Hannah,’ he said in a stage whisper, ‘will ya make me a cup of tea? I’m dying for one. It’ll kill the hangover for the morning.’

He looked ridiculous on the floor, and harmless, his big face smiling and his legs splayed out like a child playing with his toys as he struggled to unlace his shoes. He was hardly a role model, she thought wearily, putting a few extra sods of turf on the fire and switching on the electric kettle. But he was her father, not the devil incarnate.

‘Sit on the chair and I’ll do your laces,’ she commanded. ‘And be quiet.’

‘Yes, Hannah,’ he said obediently. ‘You were always like your mother, a great woman to have in charge.’

The following morning, she packed her suitcase into the boot of the Fiesta feeling like a different person from the uptight woman who’d arrived three days previously. Real life courtesy of the West of Ireland always did that to her. It shifted the world on its axis somehow, made problems look differently when the backdrop was different.

Her mother stood beside the car in the misty morning air with her arms full of oddly shaped packages and jars wrapped in newsprint.

‘There’s rhubarb jam – four jars of that – and some free-range eggs from Doyles up the road. I’ve put in a loaf of brown bread and some of yesterday’s bacon because nobody would finish it and it’ll go to waste here. Mary’ll be gone tomorrow.’

‘Where’s she going?’ Hannah asked, stowing the packages carefully in the boot.

‘Off to her fancy man, I’ve no doubt.’

Hannah straightened up in shock. ‘So she told you. I thought you’d be furious with her.’

Her mother shrugged. ‘No point in that. What can’t be cured must be endured. Did you ever hear that one?’

‘You never cease to amaze me, Mam,’ Hannah said finally. ‘Just when I think I know how you’re going to react, you do something else.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like telling Mary that I have my life all sorted out and how proud you are of me…’ Hannah’s voice trailed off. She was sorry she’d started this now. All through the holiday, she’d wanted to ask her mother about what Mary had said and now that she had, she regretted it.

‘Did you not think I’d be proud of you?’ demanded Anna harshly. ‘When you’ve got out of this place and made another life for yourself? Wouldn’t I have loved to do that myself if I could? Of course I’m proud of you, but you could never see it.’

‘You were always so tough on me,’ protested Hannah. ‘Stuart was your golden boy.’

Her mother snorted. ‘Lads will always be golden boys because they have it both ways. They’re men and they get what they want in life. If a woman gets what she wants, she’s seen as some tough old bird who couldn’t get a man. Stuart didn’t need help, you did. I didn’t want you turning out soft. I treated you hard to make you hard, so you wouldn’t go through what I did,’ explained Anna.

‘Oh.’

They stood there for a moment. Anna had never been an affectionate woman; it wasn’t in her nature to grab people just for the hell of it. Today, Hannah decided to ignore that. She put her arms around her mother’s stiff frame and held her tightly. Anna Campbell relaxed and stayed there for at least a minute before pulling away.

‘You better be off, Hannah,’ she said gruffly. ‘The world and his granny will be on the road today heading home, so you should leave now.’

‘I’m going,’ Hannah said with a grin. ‘Phone me, won’t you?’

‘You’re never there!’ her mother said. ‘Always out gallivanting. That’s my girl.’

The journey wasn’t any shorter on the way home, but it flew past. Hannah drove with a song in her heart. The trials and tribulations of the weeks before had vanished and she felt reborn, revitalized. So what if Felix had a commitment problem? It was his problem and not hers. She didn’t need him. She was a strong, intelligent woman who came from a long line of similar women. What did a handsome playboy actor matter to a woman like that? Driven with the desire to forge ahead, she began planning her new life and career.

It was time she put down roots, time she bought her own home. If she hadn’t wasted all that money buying stupid party dresses so she’d look nice for Felix, she’d practically have her deposit money now. Well, it wouldn’t take too long to replace the extra cash. If hard work and long hours were all it took, she could manage that. She’d have a career, her independence and a place of her own. Felix could go hang.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#ulink_ebf29819-924e-584d-a080-278c7309470f)

How Kirsten got out of Christmas dinner, Emma would never know. But whatever the combination of words were, they convinced Jimmy O’Brien that his dear, sweet younger daughter was ill and couldn’t possibly leave her sick bed simply for a bit of roast turkey and stuffing and a bit of family bonding.

‘Poor love, she’s worn out,’ he said, hanging up the phone and coming back into the kitchen where Emma, hair stuck to her forehead with perspiration, was basting the turkey for the tenth time that day. ‘I think she’s…’ Jimmy winked at his wife, ‘you know. Pregnant. She doesn’t want to say anything yet, but I’m sure of it. She did say she was feeling nauseous.’ He swelled up like a bullfrog with pride.

Emma slammed the oven door shut venomously. If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that the deeply unmaternal Kirsten wasn’t pregnant. Hungover, more likely. Every Christmas Eve, she and a crowd of her old friends hit the Horseshoe Bar for a riotous evening of champagne cocktails, followed by a party in one of their houses until the wee small hours, or at least until Santa was at home in bed, having delivered his wares. One poor mug had to be designated driver to ferry the plastered revellers from the Shelbourne to their homes. Usually, Patrick drew the short straw.

Emma would have bet the very nice lilac mohair jumper Pete had given her that morning that her sister was lying in bed at that precise moment, gulping down Alka Seltzer and whining that she’d never drink another cocktail ever again. The cow. Kirsten knew that Emma was dreading the ritual O’Brien Christmas.

Every year, they all went to Anne-Marie and Jimmy’s house for dinner, along with Great Aunt Petra and Jimmy’s unmarried brother, Eugene. Torturous at the best of times, it was going to be worse this year, Emma was convinced of that. Her mother had been behaving quite normally for the past few weeks and there’d thankfully been no recurrence of the Laura Ashley incident. But Emma was sure it was only a matter of time until it happened again. It couldn’t have been a one-off, she was painfully sure of that. Christmas, with all the fuss and excitement, was bound to be the trigger for another attack.

In her usual ostrich fashion, Kirsten had refused to discuss it at all, but she’d known how nervous Emma was about the family party. It was pure meanness on her part to cry off at this late stage. It wasn’t as if she’d have had to do anything either. Emma had gone with her mother to the supermarket three days previously and bought all the food for Christmas. It was unheard of for her mother not to have ordered her turkey a month in advance, complete with spiced ham and a load of sausages. But this year, she had nothing organized and Emma had ended up doing everything. Her father wouldn’t notice that the Christmas pudding wasn’t home-made, she decided, if enough brandy was poured on to it. Kirsten could have helped a bit if she’d been there, even if it was only to put their father in a rare good mood.

‘I’ll phone Patrick,’ Emma announced suddenly, ‘ask him how she is. You know Kirsten, complete hypochondriac. She’s probably just got a cold.’

‘You’ll do no such thing,’ growled her father. ‘Your poor sister is in her sick bed and you think she’s just got a cold. And all because you don’t want to help your mother cook the dinner. Laziness, that’s what it is. In my day, we were damn lucky to get a Christmas dinner, never mind be complaining about having to cook it.’

Emma opened her mouth to protest that, actually, she was the one doing all the cooking while her mother had been fiddling about with a tin for ages. Turning away from her father, she caught a glimpse of Anne-Marie’s face: it was a picture of confusion. In one hand, she held a tin of the mushy peas Uncle Eugene consumed by the bucketful. In the other, she held the egg whisk. The tin-opener lay abandoned on the counter. She was trying to open the peas with the egg whisk, God love her.

‘Forget it, Dad,’ Emma muttered. ‘I won’t phone Patrick. You’re right.’ It was easier to placate him. She’d phone later, secretly.

He stormed off and Emma gently took the tin and the whisk away from her mother.

‘Mum, you’ve done everything so far, why don’t you sit down and talk to Auntie Petra for a while? I’ll bring you both a nice glass of sherry and you can watch the carols on the telly.’

Emma wasn’t sure whether sherry was good for people with problems like her mother’s, but if it calmed her down and took that sad, bewildered look off her face, then a good glass of sherry was ideal. A strong drink might also dilute the effect of Petra’s caustic tongue.

She left the two women sitting happily listening to some sweet child soprano singing ‘Hark, the Herald Angels Sing’ on RTE1, each with a giant glass of sherry. In the kitchen, she checked that everything was cooking away nicely and then phoned Pete’s home. He was having dinner with his family. The festive theory was that every second year, they had dinner with one family but Emma was tired of Christmas in the war zone of the O’Briens’.

Last year, they’d promised each other they’d break the Christmas cycle by having their dinner together in their own house, ignoring the plaintive demands from their families. The plan would have worked, because Pete’s parents perfectly understood their son’s desire for a break with the tradition. But, naturally, Jimmy O’Brien hadn’t been pleased.

‘Have Pete here,’ he’d commanded, ‘then you’ll be together.’

‘That’s not the point,’ Emma had tried to explain, in vain. To make life easier for her, they’d compromised again this year.

Pete hadn’t said anything about not letting her father boss her about. He’d kept his peace and had hugged her tightly that morning when she’d said goodbye to him and had driven to her parents’ house. Next Christmas, she vowed fiercely, it’d be different.

‘Hi, Pete,’ she said now, wishing he was beside her for a cuddle.

‘Hi, my darling,’ he responded. ‘Wish you were here. I miss you.’

‘Oh, don’t,’ she groaned. ‘I can’t wait until tonight. You’re sure your mum doesn’t mind me only popping over later?’

‘No, she’s dying to see you. She’s told me what she’s got you for Christmas and you’ll love it.’