The Art of Friendship (4 page)

Harry and Dorothy heaped constant praise on her for her courage and strength, for supporting them and the children when she herself was mourning the loss of her husband. And she was torn between the desire to tell them the truth about her and Scott so that she could assuage her terrible guilt and the need not to. Clearly, more harm would come from telling them than good. They were heartbroken enough as it was. It would’ve been pure selfishness to add to their misery.

And so she told no-one, not even her closest friends. Because to do so would’ve meant disparaging Scott’s character. It would’ve meant saying, directly or indirectly, that he was flawed. And Kirsty was simply not prepared to do that – she would not tarnish his memory. It was all she had
of him now. She would not talk ill of the dead. Plus it wasn’t all Scott’s fault; she must bear some of the responsibility too. Or perhaps no-one was to blame. Sometimes these things just happened.

Luckily, she had only spoken in the vaguest terms about her marriage difficulties to her closest friends. But if they had ever suspected all was not well, as soon as Scott died, no-one asked her about the state of her marriage again.

Kirsty slid her head under the water and tried to block out these thoughts. She was beating herself up over something which she could not change. And much as she would’ve loved to offload her guilt so that she could feel better, doing so would mean hurting Harry or Dorothy, both of whom she loved. She would not do that. Painful and lonely as it was, she would keep her own counsel.

The bath water was getting cool – it was time to get out and have a shower. From experience, Kirsty knew she could not wash her hair in the bath. The bath milk would leave a residue on her hair, which would result in lank, dull locks. Pampering, Kirsty concluded, was hard work.

Three hours later Kirsty was buffed and polished, painted and combed, fragrant with perfume, her shabby nails transformed into dark red talons. She stood in front of the mirror in the outfit Patsy had advised and felt pleased with the result. Her shoulder-length auburn hair was smooth and shiny, her face well made-up, her clothes immaculate. Her wedge boots added an extra two inches to her height making her look slimmer than she was, though she had never been bothered by her weight. She was a size twelve and the same weight, more or less, that she had been in her early twenties. She smiled at her reflection. Patsy would be proud of her.

And she was proud of herself for getting this far. Here
she was, about to go on a date and, though it was unlikely, there was a chance that this man might be The One. The possibility made Kirsty feel alive again. The doorbell went.

‘Wish me luck,’ she said to her reflection, and smiled.

Izzy sat at Clare’s kitchen table. A High School Musical lever arch file was propped against the glass fruit bowl, opened to a page of notes untidily scrawled in blue ink. On the table lay a jotter, the virgin pages as yet unsoiled by Izzy’s hand. Alongside the jotter was a Hannah Montana pencil case – Izzy chewed on the end of a matching pencil. Everything of Izzy’s had to be themed. When Clare was her age – God, was that really twenty-three years ago? – she didn’t have a branded item in her battered denim satchel. How times had changed.

Simultaneously, with her right elbow resting on the table, Izzy twirled a lock of blonde hair between her forefinger and thumb, the tiny earpieces of an iPod jammed in her ears. Izzy insisted that music helped her concentrate. But, as far as Clare could see, the expression on her pretty face was more vacant than inspired. This, ostensibly, was Izzy doing her homework. Clare bit her lip. Izzy was Liam’s twelve-year-old daughter by his first marriage and, much as she wanted to, it wasn’t Clare’s place to tell the child what to do.

Clare rolled her eyes at her daughter Rachel, just four months shy of her second birthday. She was seated happily on her booster seat eating beans and toast from a blue bowl with her fingers, a yellow plastic spoon discarded on the floor. Rachel grinned back joyfully, her face and hands smeared with tomato sauce. Four-year-old Josh had already wandered off to watch
Space Pirates
on CBeebies, his half-eaten meal abandoned. She really ought to wrestle him back to the table, thought Clare, but tonight she just didn’t have the energy. She cleared away his plate.

Clare bent down to load Josh’s plate and cutlery into the dishwasher and shook her head, torn between the urge to smile at Izzy’s idleness and the urge to intervene.

But, as far as Izzy was concerned, any interference by Clare was a violation of her human rights. As she frequently pointed out, Clare was
not
her mother and had no right to tell her what to do. Which made life very awkward, for she was sometimes in Clare’s sole care. Like now, on a dark Wednesday evening, with Liam not yet home from work.

Clare glanced at the clock. She bit her lip, stole a sideways peek at Izzy, and wished Liam would hurry up and get there. And not just because of Izzy. She wanted him to take over from her so that she could get ready to go out with her friends. He had been late almost every night these last two weeks. Clare shook her head and let out a long sigh – so much for the New Year’s resolution. What a joke that was, she thought. So far her attempts to paint had been laughable. She’d managed a few hours here and there but, without more support from Liam, she really couldn’t see how on earth she was going to realise her dream.

Izzy drummed her pencil on the jotter in time to whatever music she was listening to, the page still blank. Clare certainly wasn’t going to say anything and risk getting her head bitten off. Well, if she didn’t get down to it, thought Clare a touch spitefully, Zoe, Izzy’s mother, would just have to supervise her homework when she got home.

Clare thought Zoe got off lightly. Liam had Izzy three weekends out of four, plus every Wednesday night. Izzy usually stayed over on Wednesdays, but not tonight. Liam had to be in Londonderry for nine the next morning so he wouldn’t be able to take her to school. Wistfully, Clare wondered what Zoe did with all that spare time on her hands.

‘Rachel!’ squealed Izzy all of a sudden. In one fluid
movement, she leapt from her place at the table like a scalded cat and flattened herself against the fridge door.

At the same time, out of the corner of her eye, Clare saw Rachel send her bowl flying off the table.

‘Shit!’ she cried and instinctively lunged from sink to table, her right hand outstretched in an attempt to thwart disaster. Amazingly, she made contact with the bowl but, slippery with sauce, it slid out of her grip, flew upwards into the air and then descended, disgorging its contents over her. It continued its descent to the floor where the melamine dish made a satisfying crack on a ceramic floor tile. Rachel clapped her hands in delight.

Stunned, Clare looked down at her just-clean-on blue polka-dot apron, now splattered with baked beans. Sauce dripped from her hand. It was everywhere – sprayed across the table, over Izzy’s jotter and pencil case, up the cream wall and on the skirting board. It was splashed across the floor like blood – splattered up the chair legs and on her beautiful cream Shaker-style kitchen units. It was amazing just how much coverage you could get from half a cup of Heinz tomato sauce. Miraculously, Izzy had escaped unmarked.

Izzy stood shoeless, both hands clasped over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror. She looked from Rachel to Clare and back again. Skinny legs, encased in opaque black tights, emerged from beneath her minuscule black skirt. She wore an Argyle multi-coloured knitted tank-top over an open-necked white shirt, this rag-tag ensemble passing for a school uniform.

Suddenly Izzy began to laugh, her delicate hands still covering her mouth, her slight frame bending with mirth like a sapling in strong wind.

‘Oh, Rachel,’ she cried, removing her hands, her face now
red with hilarity. ‘You are a naughty girl.’ And she laughed again, holding her right side this time, a child once more, her usual attitude forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Josh appeared in the hall doorway, drawn by the commotion. He pointed at Clare’s head and smiled. Just then a cold baked bean slid down her nose. She caught it with her tongue and ate it. Josh squealed with delight. Rachel battered her small fists on the table and shrieked with joy. Their high-pitched voices filled the room like Christmas bells.

Clare looked at the mess all around her and smiled. Then she started to laugh. What else was there to do? Sometimes things were just so bad, you had to see the funny side.

‘I’m supposed to be going out in two hours’ time,’ she said, shaking her head. She removed a cold baked bean from her hair and examined it. She gave Izzy a wry smile.

‘I’m sorry,’ gasped Izzy. ‘That is just soooo funny, Clare.’

‘Oh dear. I’m going to have to wash my hair now,’ Clare said, which sent Izzy into more peals of laughter.

It wasn’t often that she and Izzy shared a moment like this when they were both just themselves, their defences disarmed. Clare grasped it, almost giddy with pleasure, not wanting the intimacy to end. She gave her stepdaughter a wide grin and for once it was returned by one of Izzy’s less guarded smiles. Not a completely open, warm smile; that wasn’t in Izzy’s nature. Not now, anyway.

Clare had not known Izzy before her parents’ divorce, but there was no doubt in her mind that the girl had been damaged by it and by the ongoing hostility Zoe bore towards Clare and Liam. Not that Zoe had any rightful cause to bear a grudge against Clare. She wasn’t a marriage breaker. Liam was already separated, and in the process of divorce, when they’d first met.

Izzy, a clever child with a high level of emotional
intelligence, had learned to navigate her way through the minefield that was family life. Her main objective, as far as Clare could determine, was to stay ‘on side’ with her mother. She had very quickly worked out that the best way to achieve this was not to be too friendly towards Clare. By keeping a frosty distance from her stepmother, Izzy could successfully walk the tightrope that was her life. It wasn’t fair on her, thought Clare – no child should have to walk on eggshells all the time.

And it meant that, try as she might, Clare found it wellnigh impossible to integrate Izzy into her own little family unit. Instead she hovered on the margins, cautious, watchful, reserved. It wasn’t for want of trying on Clare’s part. She felt genuinely sorry for Izzy and for Liam’s sake she tried very hard with her stepdaughter. So an unguarded moment like this with Izzy felt like a breakthrough.

Now that the drama was over, Josh ran out of the room, cackling with laughter. Rachel slid off her booster seat and made to follow him.

‘Not so fast, young lady,’ said Clare, her laughter ebbing but a smile still on her lips. She caught Rachel in her arms as she scooted past, carried her over to the sink and rubbed her face and hands vigorously with a wet flannel.

‘There, that’s better,’ she said, releasing the wriggling child. As soon as she set her daughter on the floor, she padded out of the room.

Izzy’s hysterical laughter had subsided. She wiped tears from beneath her eyes and sighed.

‘Here, you’ll need one of these,’ said Clare, proffering the big box of Kleenex she kept in the kitchen for such domestic disasters. ‘Your mascara’s all run.’

‘Has it?’ said Izzy, plucking a tissue from the box.

‘Uh huh.’

Izzy dabbed at the black stains under her eyes and asked, ‘That better?’

Clare nodded and there was a pause. Izzy looked away and fiddled with her hair. Feeling the moment slipping away, Clare sought to retain it. ‘How’d you get on with your homework?’ she began, and regretted it as soon as she said it.

‘Fine,’ said Izzy indifferently, pulling the shutters instantaneously down. She took a step away from Clare.

‘Here’s a cloth to wipe your things,’ said Clare cheerfully, acting as though she had not noticed the return of Izzy’s habitual coolness. She threw a damp dishcloth onto the table. A knot of sadness formed in her stomach like indigestion. ‘I don’t think you’ll get the tomato sauce off that jotter, though,’ she chattered on nervously. ‘You’ll need to rip those pages out.’

Izzy said nothing, picked up the cloth and wiped the table, her pencil case, file and jotter, smudging the pages with ugly orange smears. She did not remove any of the damaged pages and settled down at the table again.

‘Aren’t you going to tear out those dirty pages?’ said Clare, unable to let the fact that Izzy had ignored her pass unremarked. She forced a laugh, trying to sound lighthearted. ‘You can’t submit homework on
that,
now can you?’

As soon as she’d said it, Clare bit her tongue. She’d broken the cardinal rule about interfering. And Izzy wasn’t slow to react.

‘Aren’t you going to get on with cleaning up?’ she said, throwing a careless glance over her shoulder at the messy room.

‘I would get on better if I had a bit of help,’ snapped Clare, her balled fists on her hips.

Izzy snorted. ‘It’s not my job to do the cleaning. That’s what you stay-at-home mums are for, isn’t it? Cleaning up
everybody’s…sh…’ She stopped, thought better of it, and finished the sentence with, ‘mess.’

Clare closed her eyes and counted to ten while bright flashes of colour throbbed behind her eyelids. She would not rise to Izzy’s bait. The child was no doubt repeating her mother’s sentiments, but that knowledge did not make the remarks any less offensive.

Clare opened her eyes and, determined to ignore Izzy’s last remark, glanced at the clock. A wave of panic washed over her. She had to clean up the mess in the kitchen, bath both children and put them to bed, plus get herself ready to go out. Of all nights, why did Liam have to be late tonight? He simply had no idea how stressful home life could be, especially when complicated by the addition of Izzy with her attitude and raging hormones in tow.

How was she ever going to carve out the time to paint?

‘Do you fancy giving me a hand with Rachel and Josh tonight, Izzy?’ asked Clare, knowing how much Izzy loved to play with the children, especially when Clare wasn’t around. ‘If you could get them washed, it’d give me a chance to clean up down here. You know how they love it when you bath them.’