Just Between Us (10 page)

‘I didn’t make enough dinner. I thought you were going out tonight,’ said Holly.

‘I might be,’ hedged Joan, who was sure something was wrong with Holly and was determined to get it out of her. ‘What’s up?’ she inquired. ‘You look like you’ve had a shit day, too.’

‘No, why do you think that?’ asked Holly.

‘Your mouth is all droopy and you look like you might cry any minute,’ Joan pointed out. ‘So either you’re depressed or you’ve aged very badly in the twenty-four hours since I last saw you, in which case I recommend Botox. What happened, and tell me all about last night’s reunion? Did you look a million dollars and did you thump any of the horrible old bitches who used to ignore you?’

‘Are you hungry?’ asked Holly, only asking the question to avoid having to answer others. Joan was always hungry. Kenny said she had a tapeworm inside her.

‘Yes, and what’s wrong?’

Holly moved away from the counter which separated the tiny kitchenette from the sitting room. With her back to Joan, she lit up another cigarette. Joan was always nagging her to stop but Holly needed the crutch of smoking, and anyway, if she stopped, she’d just balloon up into a fat girl again. And then she’d be anti-social
and
fat…

She stifled a sniff but Joan heard.

‘Holly, what’s wrong?’ said Joan again in a gentle voice.

Faced with her friend’s kindness, the whole story came tumbling out: how Holly had felt good because everything had gone well at the reunion, but then how stupid she’d felt for lying about a boyfriend. And then, how utterly hurt she’d been by what Pia had said.

‘Stupid bitch!’ raged Joan, threatening death, destruction and the reorganisation of Pia’s facial features. ‘I don’t know why you didn’t go back and hit her. Did you mention this to Bunny?’ Joan and Bunny were on the same wavelength. Both were tough, unafraid of anyone and fiercely protective of Holly.

‘No,’ said Holly miserably. ‘I couldn’t tell her. I
am
a mess, Joan. Pia was right.’

Like many sensitive people, all it took was one push and she was down.

‘You’re not a mess,’ screeched Joan furiously.

‘When I lied to the people at the reunion, the boyfriend I invented was gay! I can’t even lie like normal people.’

‘Kenny is cute,’ Joan pointed out.

‘It wasn’t Kenny, I’m dating Xavier.’

Joan grinned. ‘Mr Throw-Pillow-Bottom Lip. Holly, love, you
have
to lie at school reunions.’ She decided that Holly needed cheering up before her morale could be boosted. ‘What else are you supposed to say? Everyone has a fantastic life according to what they say when they meet old enemies. Did you ever hear of anyone at a reunion who said: “I got thrown out of college, was busted for drugs and avoided a jail sentence by doing eight zillion hours of community service, plus I live in a squat, have never had sex and my job involves spending all day saying ‘would you like fries with that?’”

Holly burst out laughing. ‘Compared with that, I have a fantastic life and I don’t know why I bothered lying.’

‘I do,’ Joan said, ‘you lied, and it was only a teeny, weensy lie, by the way, for the same reason everyone lies – because we’re all basically insecure and we want people to think we’re wildly successful. Am I right or am I right?’

‘Right,’ Holly replied hesitantly. ‘But that makes me a very shallow person if I give in to that sort of thinking.’

‘Everyone does it.’ Joan was matter of fact. ‘My sister tells people her husband is in the merchandise relocation business when he drives a truck, and my mother tells my grandmother that I dress like this because we have to wear strange clothes in college. It’s easier than telling my grandmother to eff off because she’s an interfering old cow.’

‘That’s different,’ Holly said. ‘I lied because it was easier than admitting that I’m hopeless with men and just can’t talk to them. I lied so that all the girls I was in school with wouldn’t look at me the way Pia looks at me. She said there was no point in them fixing me up with a man because it would be a waste of time.’ Holly looked so downcast that Joan’s blood began to come to the boil again. Pia was
so
dead. ‘We’ll just have to find a fabulously hunky boyfriend for you then, someone who can race into the children’s department just before closing and ravage you on top of the Rudolf the red-nosed reindeer pyjamas, and that would show dopey Slut Face Pia.’

‘I can’t speak from experience but I daresay that type of behaviour would get me fired,’ Holly pointed out.

‘But at least the girls would know you had a hunky boyfriend.’

‘I’d also be jobless.’

‘Just an idea.’ Joan twiddled a bit of spiky hair thoughtfully.

Holly stabbed out her cigarette and went back to stirring her sauce miserably.

‘Enough already,’ said Joan, changing the conversation. ‘Was everyone at the reunion impressed with your outfit?’

Holly grinned for the first time all day. ‘We’re talking eyes popping out of heads. They couldn’t believe it was chubby little Holly Miller.’

‘That’s what I call a result. I can’t imagine you as a chubby kid,’ Joan added. ‘You are
so
not fat.’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Holly mumbled. ‘But I was and I still don’t feel different, Joan. I still feel like the old me.’

Joan regarded her grimly. ‘The problem isn’t other people, Holly,’ she pronounced, ‘it’s you. It’s in your head.’

The doorbell rang again, a long insistent ring made by somebody keeping an impatient finger on the bell. Only Kenny rang like that. The word ‘impatient’ failed hopelessly to convey the notion of how much in a hurry Kenny always was.

‘Don’t mention this to Kenny,’ begged Holly as she went to open the door. She couldn’t cope with the
two
of them giving out to her all evening for being a neurotic wimp.

‘Hello sweeties. Is there enough din dins for me?’ inquired Kenny, once he’d hugged Holly and examined the contents of the saucepan bubbling on the stove.

In contrast to Joan’s fashion college rig-out, Kenny was beautifully dressed in a charcoal shirt that clung snugly to his slim torso and a pair of elegant grey trousers that looked as though they had been made for him. Gucci and Hugo Boss respectively. Kenny loved labels and could identify any item of clothing at fifty paces. A senior salesman at an exclusive menswear boutique, Kenny was branching out into working as a stylist. His dream was to stop working in the shop altogether and freelance.

Holly thought he could work either side of the camera. He had cropped dark hair with a Richard Gere-esque sprinkling of early grey, and a handsome face with dark stubble. Kenny couldn’t cross the road without women looking admiringly at him. Joan’s favourite method of teasing him was to sigh and say, ‘Isn’t it a waste you’re gay. Why don’t we give it a go? I’m sure all you need is the love of a good woman.’

Kenny’s answer to this was to roll his eyes theatrically and shudder: ‘Don’t go there.’

Holly hunted in the freezer for more pasta. ‘There’s enough dinner for everyone,’ she said.

‘Goody.’ Kenny bounced onto the couch beside Joan and the two of them looked happily up at Holly, with eager hungry expressions on their faces. They reminded Holly of
two kids expectantly watching Mummy cooking. The three of them were certainly a little family unit, she thought ruefully. Although they took turns being Mummy, because there was always one of them in some trauma. Kenny was plunged into gloom roughly every month because his love life never ran smoothly and there was always some gorgeous hunk of a man who wasn’t returning his phone calls. Joan’s traumatic incidents involved her finances – she spent all her grant on clothes, regularly ran out of rent money and scattered IOUs around like confetti. Holly’s problem was herself, which was handy in that it didn’t involve outside influences.

‘I thought you guys were going out?’ Holly said.

‘Change of plans,’ Kenny said.

‘Is there anything good on the telly tonight?’ Joan asked, searching in vain for the TV guide.

‘Nothing good on a Friday, except Sex and the City on satellite,’ Kenny said instantly. Kenny loved TV and read the listings in the paper first, followed by his horoscope, and then the headlines.

From the kitchenette, Holly grinned. She might not know what a wild existence with lots of men was like personally, but she could watch it on TV thanks to the Sex and the City girls. She began to grate some Parmesan reggiano, letting the day’s events seep out of her system, while Kenny and Joan argued over the television. What would she do without them?

Ten minutes later, dinner was on the table, served on Holly’s auction-house Italian china with the pastel fruit designs. None of it matched, but it was exquisite.

Joan began mopping up sauce messily with a heavily-buttered roll while Kenny fastidiously dipped slivers of unbuttered bread into his.

‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Holly, you are talented.’

Holly beamed.

‘You’ve got to forget what happened today,’ he continued, having heard a whispered version of the story from Joan while Holly was busy in the kitchen.

Holly stopped beaming. ‘You promised not to mention it,’ she said to Joan.

‘I agree with Joan,’ Kenny said, ‘Pia is a blot on the landscape but let’s not rush into making her suffer. She gets her hair cut by my friend Marco, just you wait till next time she wants her fringe trimmed. Linda Evangelista is the only person I’ve ever seen who can cope with a one-inch fringe. Huh.’

‘But making Pia suffer is not our primary mission,’ Kenny added. ‘Fun, yes.’ He grinned evilly. ‘Hilarious, absolutely. But not our primary mission. That,’ he paused, ‘is to get you a man, Holly dear. It would make all the difference to your life.’

Holly blinked anxiously at him. ‘I don’t need a man,’ she said.

Kenny’s smile widened to Cheshire Cat proportions. ‘Yes you do,’ he said. ‘You need to be loved, cherished and adored by some man who spends his whole life telling you how beautiful and wonderful you are. And we’re going to help you find him.’

‘Is that my Christmas present?’ inquired Holly, seeing the funny side.

‘Don’t talk to me about Christmas,’ groaned Joan. ‘I haven’t bought anything and I’m broke.’

‘I’m broke because I
have
bought everything,’ Holly added. ‘But I’m not really looking forward to Christmas this year because Tara isn’t going to be at home in Kinvarra with the rest of the family. She’s going to spend it with Finn’s parents.’

‘The dreaded mother-in-law?’ Joan said.

‘The very same. For Tara’s birthday in September, she bought her a steam iron.’

‘Lovely present,’ cooed Kenny. ‘I hope Tara’s buying her something suitably awful for Christmas.’

Holly giggled. ‘Tara did mention being tempted to buy a year’s supply of constipation pills but she chickened out and bought perfume instead.’

‘Well, I’ve bought nearly everyone’s gift, except my mother’s,’ Kenny added. ‘I have my eye on this fabulous Tanner Krolle handbag that she’d just love.’

‘Oh, you mean you’re not getting a boyfriend for
everyone
,’ joked Holly.

Kenny blew her a kiss. ‘Only you, Holly, only you.’

On the afternoon of Christmas Eve, Tara idly wondered what the rest of her family were up to. Normally, the three Miller girls would be ensconced in the kitchen in Kinvarra, wrapping presents, laughing and joking as they tangled themselves up with Sellotape and shiny paper, with Amelia helping. Christmas wouldn’t be quite the same without everyone else, she thought. But then again, she had Finn. Life couldn’t always stay the same and if it had, she might never have met him. Noticing the time, she went in search of her husband. While she’d been out buying last-minute bits and pieces, he was supposed to have packed his stuff and all the presents. However, his suitcase lay empty on their bedroom floor and Finn lay sprawled on the bed, fully dressed and loose limbed. One long arm dangled over the side of the bed, almost reaching the floor, the other was flung across the pillow. Tara crept quietly over and gazed down at him. He hadn’t shaved that morning, and the combination of stubble and slept-in golden hair should have given him a dissolute appearance. But it didn’t. Even unkempt and deeply asleep, her husband shone with inner goodness. It was those long baby-girl eyelashes, Tara decided.

She slipped off her shoes and launched herself onto the bed.

‘Wake up!’ she roared, as she bounced into position beside her sleeping husband.

‘Errgh, what?’ groaned Finn, opening his eyes to reveal plenty of red-veined eyeball.

‘You were supposed to pack and shave while I was out,’ Tara said, crawling up the bed until she was lying on him. ‘I needed a rest,’ moaned Finn, burying his head under the pillow. ‘A few more minutes. It’s only lunchtime.’

‘It’s nearly two thirty and we’re supposed to be at your parents’ by half three.’

Somehow, they’d been roped into an intimate Jefferson family Christmas when Tara had wanted them to go to Kinvarra instead. But short of faking appendicitis, she knew there was no way out of it. They still had to pack for a three-night stay and the drive would take at least another hour, meaning that unless they left soon, they’d be very late.

‘Get up,’ she said again. ‘You know how awful the traffic is to your parents’ place, and today it’ll be worse than ever.’

From under the pillow, Finn groaned again. ‘We can phone and say we got delayed. Then I can have a snooze.’

Tara whipped the pillow away. ‘No way, Finn. Your mother won’t blame you if we’re late. It’ll be my fault. So get out of that bed or I’ll go and get the cold sponge.’

‘Not the sponge,’ pleaded Finn. ‘Anything but the sponge.’

Her fingers burrowed under his sweater and she began to tickle relentlessly.

‘Stop,’ he said weakly. ‘I can’t cope…’

Feeling guilty, she stopped. Finn took advantage of her weakness. In one quick twist, he’d jumped up in the bed and began tickling her, his longer, stronger fingers wickedly insistent.

‘No!’ squealed Tara as he began tickling her feet. ‘Not my feet! No, pig! Stop it!’

‘OK.’ Too hungover to continue at any event, he rolled off her and they both lay back on the bed, panting.

‘Have you packed anything?’ Tara inquired.

‘I got halfway through and I lay down for a nap,’ Finn confided. ‘I’m wrecked.’

‘That’s what happens when you get totally hammered at your office Christmas party,’ Tara said smugly. ‘I told you that drinking pints wasn’t an Olympic sport.’

Finn grinned. ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’

‘Not the day before we go to your parents for Christmas when you leave me to do all the packing,’ Tara reproved. ‘Get up, lazybones. We’ve got to be out of here in twenty minutes.’

‘Yessir,’ saluted Finn, half-heartedly.

Tara began packing quickly, rushing round the flat finding things like her mobile phone charger and her diary. Soon, she promised herself, they’d redecorate.

The bedroom was probably the best room in the two-bedroomed flat as it had the least awful curtains (plain, French blue) and boasted an entire wall of mirror-fronted wardrobes which hid a multitude of sins. Neither Tara nor Finn were tidy people and once the wardrobes were opened, things fell out and had to be carefully jammed back in. In spite of this drawback, they were packed and in the car in thirty minutes. The traffic was, as Tara had predicted, terrible. The Jeffersons lived in a pretty commuter town on the East coast, but the thirty-mile journey from Dublin inevitably took forever.

‘Relax,’ said Finn as they sat in a four-mile tailback to the toll bridge. ‘Mums won’t mind.’

Tara managed to keep her mouth shut. Mums or Mrs Gloria Jefferson would mind very much and would undoubtedly take it out on Tara. Just thinking about the next three days made Tara feel sick. She loved her father-in-law, Desmond, because he was funny and kind, like Finn, but Gloria was another matter. Chillier than the faint dusting of snow on the side of the motorway to Naas, Gloria was obsessed with class, money and ‘doing the right thing’. The right thing for Christmas, apparently, was a sedate meal out with friends the night before, an intimate family dinner on the day (Tara had previous experience of the great silences at any meal where the guest list was just herself, Finn, Desmond and Gloria), and an afternoon drinks party at the Jeffersons’ on Boxing Day where lesser neighbours were
invited in to be allowed a glimpse of Gloria’s newly-purchased dining room table and twelve, no less, chairs. The
wrong
thing, as far as Tara could make out, was Gloria’s beloved only son marrying a television script writer. In her more wicked moments, Tara wished she’d been heavily pregnant when she married Finn, just for the thrill of watching Gloria’s deeply shocked face as her daughter-in-law sailed down the aisle in a maternity wedding dress. What a scene that would have made. Tara’s inventive mind went into overdrive. Imagine if she’d
had
the baby halfway down the aisle…

‘She likes you, of course she does,’ Finn protested whenever Tara gently pointed out that his mother didn’t appear too keen on her. ‘She’s protective, that’s all. And reserved. It was the way she was brought up.’

Unless Gloria had been brought up by Trappist monks, Tara could see no reason for her icy silences. But then, Trappist monks were amiable people and there was no way that Gloria could ever be called amiable. She could be friendly to other people, mind you, just not to Tara, who never ceased to be amazed at how her mother-in-law could simultaneously bestow smiles on Finn, and disdainful glances on her.

There were no beloved ex-girlfriends in the closet to account for this bitchiness, nobody Gloria would have preferred Finn to marry. Tara decided she was simply the sort of woman who viewed all women as rivals one way or the other. Tara might not have been a rival when it came to Mr Jefferson, but she was a rival for Finn’s affection. That put her on Gloria’s hate list. And boy, could Gloria hate.

It was well after six when they drove in the gate to Four Winds, the Jeffersons’ meticulously maintained house. The house was small but even so, it was about three times the size of Tara and Finn’s shoebox apartment. Gloria had dropped heavy hints about how the couple would be able to afford a bigger home if only they moved out of the city, nearer to Four Winds. But Tara would prefer to endure constant
penny-pinching, not being able to afford much in the way of luxuries and having a bathroom the size of a built-in wardrobe as long as it kept her far away from her mother-in-law.

‘We’re going to be in trouble,’ Finn said gloomily. Even he had decided that his mother would go mad at the lateness of their arrival. Consequently, it was up to Tara to cheer him up.

‘We’re only going out for a quick meal,’ she said, ‘I can be changed and ready to go in five minutes.’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but she won’t be pleased. We’re going out with the Bailey-Montfords and Mums has a bit of a keep-up-with-the-neighbours thing going with Liz B-M, so everything has to be perfect. Did you bring something dressy to wear tonight?’

‘You saw what I packed,’ said Tara, startled. ‘I don’t have anything very dressy with me, not for any day. I thought this was just a relaxed dinner with old family friends. You didn’t mention any special significance to this meal.’ Tara thought of her suitcase with its selection of casual clothes which she’d imagined were suitable for a family Christmas. She had a couple of sweaters, a white shirt styled like a man’s dress shirt, her chinos, jeans for any rambles in the snow with Finn, and an indigo corduroy dress she’d brought to wear for Christmas Day. She was currently wearing black jeans, a black polo neck and her beloved sheepskin coat. Because she’d packed in a hurry, she’d brought far too much but even so, none of this rapidly assembled wardrobe could be described as dressy. ‘Why didn’t you tell me we’d need to dress up?’ she asked.

‘I just thought you’d know,’ muttered Finn as he parked the car.

‘Know what?’ Tara was getting angry now. ‘I brought the sort of thing I’d wear in Kinvarra for Christmas. It’s suitable for there. Are you telling me that your mother is going to be dressed up like a dog’s dinner tonight and every night?’

Finn’s silence was enough of an answer.

‘Great. This is a great start,’ Tara said. Another black mark loomed.

‘Let’s not argue,’ begged Finn.

Tara gave him a resigned look. ‘You’re right,’ she said. Anyway, there’d be enough arguing in the Jeffersons’ without them being at it too. Gloria could argue at professional level.

Desmond Jefferson opened the door before they could ring the bell. ‘Hello Tara, Merry Christmas, hello Finn,’ he greeted them. A tall, shy man who looked like an older version of Finn, with the same unruly fair hair and the same kind, handsome face, Desmond Jefferson was often described by friends as ‘one of life’s gentlemen’. Until his recent retirement, he’d been a civil servant in the Department of Foreign Affairs. His current plan was to spend lots of time in his garden. Tara reckoned he just wanted to stay as far away from Gloria as possible, not that Desmond would ever say so. He was far too kind and liked a quiet life.

She kissed him affectionately on the cheek and handed him a small package. ‘A secret present,’ she whispered. ‘Fudge.’

Desmond smiled. ‘Our secret,’ he nodded, slipping the package into his trouser pocket.

Like Tara, he adored sweet things but Gloria kept him on a severe diet. There was no adequate excuse for this, Tara knew, because he was perfectly healthy, had no cholesterol problems and went for a four-mile walk every day.

‘Mums likes to fuss,’ was how Finn explained it.

Mums likes to control, was Tara’s personal version.

His mother was in the drawing room waiting for them. She glanced quickly at her watch, and then smiled, as if she hadn’t really been clocking the fact that they were very late. She was fifty-nine but looked at least ten years younger, thanks to rigorous dieting, monthly chestnut rinses in the hairdressers’ and a painstaking beauty routine. Dressed in a black satin evening dress that was a perfect fit for her
tiny body, Gloria should have looked marvellous. But the hardness in her pale blue eyes and the taut disapproval in her jaw ruined the effect.

‘Hello, Gloria,’ said Tara, ‘lovely to see you. Your Christmas tree is nice.’ It was horrible, actually. God would strike her down for lying so much.

‘Thank you, Tara,’ said Gloria in her well-modulated voice. ‘So lovely to see you too. Finn,’ she added, sweetly reproving. ‘You haven’t shaved. We’re leaving in half an hour.’

Finn’s smile didn’t falter at the bite in his mother’s voice. ‘Didn’t have time, Mums, too busy with last-minute work,’ he lied, putting a pile of gift-wrapped presents under the tree and then giving his mother a hug. Tara never bothered hugging Gloria; she’d tried it once and it had been like embracing a shop-window dummy. ‘Just as thin and just as stiff,’ Tara had told Stella later. ‘She’s nothing but a shrew.’

‘She’s had years being on her best behaviour as a civil servant’s wife,’ Stella had said kindly. ‘I’m sure she really likes you, she’s just very formal.’

‘Stella, she’s the most un-civil person I’ve ever met. Now when are you going to wise up and turn into an old cynic like me?’ Tara laughed. ‘You expect the best of everyone.’

‘I don’t,’ protested Stella. ‘I hate to see you not getting on with your mother-in-law. She seems nice enough to me, you must give her a chance.’

‘She’s had six months since the wedding,’ Tara replied grimly, ‘and there’s been no time off for good behaviour.’

‘I’ll show you to your room,’ Gloria said now, rising graciously to her feet. ‘If you hadn’t been so late, you could have had coffee. Still,’ she gave Tara a rather contemptuous glance, ‘you’re here now.’

Tara said nothing. She knew she wasn’t imagining it. Gloria was a cow. As she led them from the room, Tara took a quick look around. The room was beautifully proportioned with big windows and, in daylight, it had a nice view of the trees in the front garden, but Gloria’s décor was positively
arctic. Pale blue walls, an even colder blue rug and silvery grey armchairs dominated. Even with the heating on at full blast, the effect was cold. It was a million miles away from the comfortable charm of Meadow Lodge, where much of her parents’ furniture was beautiful but old and well loved. Everything in the Jeffersons’ house was defiantly brand new, as if Gloria consigned everything to the bin in a three-year cycle so she could keep up with the Joneses.

The Christmas tree was worse, decorated with far too few silver bits and pieces because Gloria hated ostentation and thought that less was more. Where were the elderly, much-loved decorations that the family would have had for years? Tara thought of her mother’s version of a Christmas tree: a riot of golds and reds, with battered cherubs and some wooden decorations they’d had for thirty years and which one of the family cats had systematically chewed. Rose had even held onto the now faded paper decorations that Tara herself had made when she was about six years old. Gloria would shudder at the sight of that tree.

‘I hope you brought your good suit,’ Gloria said to Finn as she marched up the stairs to the guest room.

‘Yes, Mums,’ said Finn.

Behind Gloria’s back, Tara stuck her tongue out at her husband, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl following a stern teacher to the head’s office.