The Art of Friendship (21 page)

‘You won’t,’ said Janice firmly. She dug her nails into her palms. ‘We’ll make sure that Pete doesn’t talk about it to anyone. And neither will we.’

Patsy gave a tight little nod and made for the door without so much as a glance at Janice or Keith. Neither of them made any move to follow her.

Martin put his hand on the door handle and paused. He turned around, took a step back into the room and stood with his hands hanging by his side, the car keys still clutched in his left fist.

‘Just in case my wife hasn’t made it absolutely clear,’ he said, pulling himself up to his full height, ‘I want you to know that we wouldn’t take a penny from you. Not if we were living on the street and starving.’

As soon as the door closed behind him, Janice started to weep. She had never been so humbled. She and Keith had had the arrogance to assume that Patsy and Martin wanted to borrow money from them. They thought Patsy and Martin were coming to them, cap in hand, begging. But it was they – Keith and Janice – who ought to be the ones begging. Pleading with their friends for forgiveness for the sins of their son.

Keith put an arm across her shoulder but there was little comfort in it – shattered, he had little to give. His face was ashen, the light in his eyes gone out. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said softly and shook his head. ‘I can’t believe that Pete was
so stupid. I thought I’d told him enough times about unprotected sex. And I’m horrified that he would treat a girl so badly.’

‘It doesn’t surprise me.’

‘Don’t say that, Janice. It’s not true. You’re as shocked as I am.’ He removed his arm.

She did not argue. What good would it do? What use was ‘I told you so’ now, when it was too late? A young girl’s life was damaged and whatever route Laura decided to take there was no way out of the situation that would leave her unscathed. Janice remembered the night of the New Year’s Eve party after everyone had left when she had tried to warn Keith about Pete. He would not listen. He had not wanted to hear. But, in ignoring Pete’s faults he had given them room to take root and tighten their grip on his fledging character – like the rust-red fungus in the shower that, left too long, refused to budge no matter what you tried to clean it with. Keith had heaped all his affection on Pete and made the erroneous assumption that Pete was, like him, fundamentally good.

She remembered her premonition back then that something bad was going to happen. She put her hands on her hot cheeks. She never imagined it coming true in this horrible way. Not only had Pete managed to destroy a young girl’s life but he had driven a wedge between his mother and her dearest friend – a rift that, right now, seemed too great to ever heal. Had he set out specifically to injure Janice, it was hard to think of a more effective way to do so.

‘At least pretend that you’re pleased for me,’ said Clare. She hauled an old red jersey dress out of the wardrobe and stared at Liam’s reflection in the mirror mounted on the inside of the wardrobe door. He was standing behind her, in a pair of navy trousers, struggling to remove a pair of cufflinks from a pale blue shirt. His face was pinched. She tried not to let his grumpy mood infect her – another tough week at work, he’d said – but it was hard and she resented it. This was her night, her exhibition. And he was spoiling it.

‘Oh, Clare, of course I’m pleased. I just…damn, I can’t get these out.’

‘Here, let me help,’ said Clare and she quickly threaded the cufflinks through the holes. ‘There. What were you saying?’

‘Nothing,’ he said and untied the blue-and-red striped tie around his neck. ‘You’d better hurry up or you’re going to be late.’

Clare decided not to pursue the conversation. She would not be drawn into an argument. ‘I don’t know what people will expect me to look like,’ she said, holding the dress against her body and looking in the mirror. She pulled the stretchy fabric taut against the curve of her waist and could hardly bear to look at the heavy woman who stared back at her.
Someone slightly eccentric or arty-looking, she thought, not a fat, frumpy housewife. It was no wonder she and Liam hardly had sex any more. Who would find her attractive? She threw the dress on the bed and sighed. ‘I think they’ll be disappointed when they see me.’

‘I don’t know what you’re worrying about, Clare,’ he said, without even looking at her. ‘People are coming to look at your paintings, not you. You should just be yourself.’ He threw the tie on the bed, turned his back on her and disappeared into the en-suite, the back of his untucked cotton shirt full like a sail.

It was sound advice but delivered with such a lack of interest, it crushed her spirit. She put the dress back in the wardrobe, pulled on black trousers and a black shirt and tied her hair back with a clasp the way she always did. As a concession to the occasion, she applied some bright red lipstick. It didn’t look right, and so she rubbed it off with a tissue. The reflection that looked back at her was severe – all in black, she looked, not like an artist, but the way she imagined someone in fashion or an architect might appear. Except they would be slimmer.

Liam came back into the room and unbuttoned his shirt unselfconsciously, revealing a smooth golden chest. He was still in good shape; his trim figure matched his boyish looks but the glimpse of his torso did nothing to excite desire in Clare. She remembered how it used to be, looked away and bit her lip.

‘That’s a terrible business about Laura and Pete,’ he said and shook his head.

Clare sighed, her heart heavy with worry for her friends, but grateful also for the distraction from her musings over the state of her marriage. ‘I know. It’s just awful. Patsy’s so upset. I tried to talk her out of the exhibition but she was
adamant that she wanted to go ahead. She said that being busy helped to take her mind off things.’

She paused, glanced at Liam and considered this statement. She understood exactly what Patsy meant. Her busyness over the past few months meant that she had been able to avoid addressing the problems in her marriage. Once the exhibition was behind her, though, she vowed she would spend more time with Liam. She was sure he felt neglected and, if she was honest with herself, he had been. As for herself, she felt increasingly distant from him.

‘I’m surprised Patsy’s invited Janice and Keith tonight,’ said Liam, pulling on a freshly laundered white shirt.

‘It’s going to be very difficult for her,’ said Clare. ‘But she’s doing it for me. She knows that if she vetoed Janice and Keith coming, their friends might not come as well. And they’re the people who are most likely to buy my pictures. Patsy knows that.’

‘Well, whatever happens,’ he said, doing up the shirt buttons, ‘I can’t see things between the Devlins and the Kirkpatricks ever being the same again.’

The knot of anxiety, which had been lodged in Clare’s stomach since Patsy had confided the whole terrible story to her and Kirsty only two days ago, tightened. ‘Don’t say that,’ she said.

‘It’s true, Clare. There’s nothing people feel more emotional about than their kids.’

Liam was right. She didn’t know if fathers felt the same but the maternal instinct to protect and defend was ferocious. Patsy’s anger towards Pete and, by extension, his mother was so intense Clare seriously doubted if she would ever be reconciled with Janice. Selfishly, she thought about the female friendship that meant so much to her. The dynamic of that relationship would be altered for ever.

She thought about the things they’d done together over the last fifteen years – nights out, parties, spa days, weekends away, shopping, but most of all the simple, innocent pleasure of shared fun and laughter. It wouldn’t be the same if they were all no longer friends. Something unique and special would be lost. She’d been looking forward so much to the trip to London to celebrate their amazing friendship. Now, unless Patsy and Janice were reconciled, it looked as if that too was under threat.

‘Maybe they’ll make up,’ said Clare optimistically, slipping her feet into a pair of sensible black ballet pumps. ‘It seems a bit unfair to blame Janice for what Pete’s done. After all Pete and Laura are both adults – well, almost in Laura’s case. She had to know what she was doing.’

Liam tucked the shirt into his trousers. ‘Maybe. But imagine if Rachel came home one day and told us she was pregnant. You’d want to blame somebody, wouldn’t you? It’d be hard to accept that your daughter wasn’t the little angel you thought she was.’

Clare shuddered, tried and failed to turn her mind to the impossible task of imagining such a scenario. She couldn’t picture her babies grown up, never mind engaging in sexual relationships. ‘I suppose so,’ she said thoughtfully and then added, ‘Now, you’re not to tell anyone. Patsy told me in the strictest confidence.’

‘What do you take me for?’ demanded Liam, sounding peeved.

‘Patsy’s anxious that as few people as possible know. I think she has in mind that if Laura has an abortion it’s not something she’d want bandied about.’

‘Poor kid.’

‘I know,’ she said and then, glancing at the digital display on the radio alarm, added, ‘Look, I’d better go, Liam. The
kids are watching TV and the babysitter’ll be here shortly.’ She went over and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

He gave her a distracted peck in return and said, ‘Okay. I’ll see you down there.’

She walked onto the landing. When she heard Liam call her name, she stopped and smiled. She knew he wouldn’t forget to wish her luck – he knew, after all, how much tonight meant to her. She turned around and went back and stood expectantly in the doorway to the bedroom.

‘Yes?’

‘Remind me, again, would you, Clare? What’s the babysitter’s name?’

And Clare smiled and told him and began to wonder if, like a puzzle with too many missing pieces, she was ever going to be able to piece her marriage back together. First she must get tonight over and done with – and tomorrow she would address the other areas of her life that seemed so out of kilter.

Patsy was in the gallery alone when Clare arrived, arranging small wine glasses on a tray by the cash register. She was wearing a knitted dress, her breasts like twin granite peaks underneath the marled grey fabric. Below the hemline, which stopped just above her knees, she wore opaque black tights and incredibly high red patent Mary Janes. Round her neck was a thin, sparkly silver-grey scarf and a chunky red necklace. Immediately Clare felt dowdy and underdressed. But if Patsy noticed, she passed no comment. She greeted her friend warmly.

Patsy put the last glass on the tray. ‘What do you think of the pictures?’

Clare’s pictures were arrayed along one wall of the little gallery, Bronson’s on another. This was wise, for Bronson’s work was so much bolder in medium (oil as opposed to
watercolour), brushstroke and colour that her detailed, muted watercolours would’ve been overwhelmed. Bronson’s pictures, ranging in subject from still life – fruit and vases of flowers – to landscapes, were very good. Clare worried that hers weren’t.

But viewed as a group, each one in a fine gold frame with handsome cream mounts, Clare’s paintings held their own. Looking at them like this, framed behind glass, was almost like seeing them for the first time, and Clare was surprised at how striking they were. Some, like the one of Carnlough Harbour, were beautiful.

‘Oh, they look fantastic, Patsy,’ she said and put her hands up to her face as though they could draw the heat of her embarrassment.

‘That’s because they are fantastic,’ said Patsy and her smile was like armour donned not to protect her from outside threats, but to contain the pain that lay within. Clare would never have used the word lacklustre to describe Patsy but tonight it seemed to fit.

‘Clare,’ her friend went on, looking at the bottle in her hand, ‘would you give me a hand to pour the wine? I’m expecting forty or so.’

They worked in companionable silence. While Patsy wrote prices on small white textured cards with a black fountain pen, Clare filled the glasses as instructed, her hand trembling. This was the most exciting thing that had happened to her, professionally speaking, in years – and she wanted so much to enjoy it. She needed to calm down.

‘Do you mind?’ she said to Patsy and held the bottle up.

‘No, help yourself.’

Clare did. Turning her back to Patsy, she downed three glasses of white wine in quick succession, like whiskey shots. The glasses were very small after all. Within minutes a calmness
started to radiate through her bones and she tried to think of something other than the state of her nerves.

She stole a glance at Patsy. Her friend finished writing the last of the cards, blew on it and went over to a largish moody-looking landscape and Blu-Tacked the little notice underneath.

‘How are things at home?’ said Clare, breaking the silence.

‘Awful.’

‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.’

Patsy stared at the display of oils for a few long seconds and then turned and looked at Clare. ‘Why shouldn’t you ask?’ she said airily, her voice raw with hurt. ‘It’s all I think about these days. And now and again it’s nice to talk to someone other than Martin about it. Laura’s been lucky. She hasn’t had any morning sickness. Though I think the reality of her situation’s just beginning to hit her.’

‘And she’s going ahead and doing her exams?’

‘She’s been absolutely insistent that she carry on as normal. She won’t even let me speak to the school.’

‘Is that wise? Surely she’s not going to do as well under these circumstances?’

Patsy sighed. ‘She’s nearly eighteen, Clare. At that age you can’t force your will on your children. You can advise them, that’s all.’

There was a pause. Patsy walked over to the window, folded her arms and stared out onto the main street, nearly deserted now that the shops were closed for the day. On the opposite side, a man hoisted a metal shutter onto the shopfront of the hardware store and padlocked it in place.

Clare asked, ‘Has she decided what she’s going to do about the baby?’

Patsy shook her head. ‘Not yet. And we haven’t pressed her for a decision. We want her to get her exams out of the
way first. Her last one’s on the second of June. There’s time yet if she wants a termination.’

This last phrase hung in the air between them like the sea mist, thick and menacing, that settled on the town in hot summers, sometimes for days at a time.

‘If she did go down that route, Patsy, it’s not going to be easy. Do you remember all that hoo-hah last autumn about extending the provisions of the Abortion Bill to Northern Ireland? It never even got a reading at Westminster.’

‘Yes, I do remember though I’m ashamed to say I didn’t pay it a whole lot of attention at the time. It didn’t affect me, you see. Not then.’

‘She’ll not get an abortion here in Northern Ireland, Patsy.’

Patsy frowned. ‘But surely under the circumstances…’

‘Abortion’s effectively illegal here.’

Patsy shook her head. ‘It can’t be.’

‘Doctors will only perform an abortion under the most restrictive of circumstances, like if carrying the baby to full term endangers a woman’s life,’ Clare pointed out, wondering why her friend wouldn’t listen to what she was saying.

Patsy gave a little snort. ‘But we live in a civilised country, Clare. I’m sure it’ll be okay.’

Clearly, Patsy didn’t want to hear any more. Clare decided that now wasn’t the time to discuss it further. She ducked her head, swallowed and said, ‘Perhaps you’re right. Laura’s GP would be the best person to advise you.’ Then she cleared her throat and added, ‘Anyway, before everyone arrives, I just wanted to say thanks for agreeing to let Janice and Keith come tonight. I know it’s not going to be easy for you.’

Patsy managed a wry smile. ‘It’s business, Clare. And I won’t let any argument I have with the Kirkpatricks come between you and them. Janice is still your friend, after all.’

Clare’s heart sank. This meant, she supposed, that Janice
was no longer Patsy’s friend. Patsy went on, ‘And more importantly – as far as tonight is concerned anyway – she’s also a great admirer of your work. When the Kirkpatricks buy, as I’m sure they will, I’d be grateful if you handled the transaction. Here.’ She picked up the card machine. ‘It’s very easy. Let me show you how to use this.’

Bronson arrived some ten minutes later. He was in his early sixties, a broad-shouldered man of average height with thick white hair and the tanned, rugged face of someone who spent much of his life outdoors. He had a white goatee beard and his face was creased with a permanent, contented smile. He wore a brown leather jacket over brown corduroy trousers and a white shirt. A hairy belly peeked through the strained buttons above his belt buckle. Patsy lit up when he kissed her warmly on both cheeks.

‘So this must be the lovely Clare,’ he said, and embraced her in a bear hug, his belly pushing against her like a big, soft cushion. He smelt of expensive aftershave and peppermint. Clare pulled a face at Patsy over his shoulder and she held her stomach and laughed, the first genuine chuckle Clare had heard from her in a while.