A Gift to You (25 page)

‘I thought it would match your eyes,’ he says, a tad bashfully. ‘You can change it if you don’t like it.’

‘It’s gorgeous, Steve, I love it.’ I’m thrilled with his thoughtful gift and kiss him soundly, much to the girl’s delight.

‘Oohhh . . . kissy kissy!’ squeals Daisy. Steve laughs but I can tell he’s pleased that I love it.

‘We helped Dad pick it,’ Molly assures me, slipping an arm around my neck.

‘I couldn’t have got a nicer present, I tell her, basking in the joy of being so loved and cherished.

‘Auntie Liz has a surprise for you, so you have to be dressed by eight o’ clock,’ Daisy informs me gleefully. I know Liz has something up her sleeve. She’s told me to be
ready to leave early.

This is great, I think happily as I stand under the bracing spray of the shower while my darlings make pancakes for breakfast. Forty’s not so bad after all.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask an hour later as Liz heads for Wicklow via the East Link.

‘You’ll see,’ Liz replies smugly.

‘You never took our exit,’ I exclaim half an hour later, as Liz continues to speed along the N11.

‘Just a while longer,’ she soothes and I laugh. Whatever my sister is up to, it’s going to be fun. When we whizz onto the Arklow Bypass and she revs up to one hundred and
twenty, comprehension dawns.

‘Are we going to Amber Springs?’

‘You bet we are. Happy birthday, little sis. I hope you’re all prepared for a day of blissful pampering. I sure am. Jennie’s meeting us there.’

A day at a luxurious health spa with the girls. What more could I want? Forty is getting better by the second.

It is the most perfect day. I’m massaged, manicured, pedicured and pampered to within an inch of my life and then as the sun begins to turn the Wicklow Hills pink and gold, chauffeured to
dinner at a candle-lit restaurant and
forced
to drink gallons of champagne. Later, snuggled in warm dressing gowns in front of a blazing fire, listening to the roar of the sea, we watch a
DVD of the second
Sex and the City
film, which I haven’t seen, and guffaw at Samantha’s menopausal rant in the souk. It’s the best birthday I’ve ever had.

It’s lovely to see the girls tumbling out of the car and galloping across the dunes the next day. A brisk walk in the bracing, salty air, the waves pounding against the shore, diminishes
our hangovers. We adults laugh and joke as the kids investigate the treasure troves to be found among the rocks. I feel really happy and contented and look forward to our barbecue later on.

‘Oh, no! It’s
that
gang!’ Daisy scowls, as recognition dawns when we see figures approaching along the beach.

I don’t believe it. It was too good to last. Barbara is waving gaily and I hear Liz curse under her breath. A knot twists my gut, not today, not them. Can’t I have
one
day
free of their unwelcome, intrusive presence? They’re like ivy, smothering me, their grip getting tighter and tighter each year.

‘Hey, you guys, better late than never,’ Tom declares expansively.

I look at Steve. He not best pleased; I can see by the way the muscle gives a little jerk in his jaw and his eyes narrow.

‘Steve told me you’d all gone to Amber Springs when I rang to wish you Happy Birthday. You had your mobile turned off. You never let on,’ Barbara accuses with false gaiety,
eyes beady flints behind the smile as she falls into place beside Jennie, Liz and myself.

‘I didn’t know,’ I manage weakly. I want to smack her.

‘It was a birthday surprise for Amy, Barbara. My treat,’ Liz informs her curtly.

‘Oh! I could have joined you last night then,’ she persists.

This is
too
much; since when do I have to start telling Madam Barbara my every move.

‘We were having a girls’ night,’ I hear myself say. ‘I guess we didn’t get to New York, like you and your friends. But Wicklow suits us fine. I just wanted to be
with my two best friends really.’

She inhales sharply and Liz flashes me an approving glance. ‘Oohh, I see,’ she says snootily. ‘Um . . . right. Well, Steve mentioned he was coming down for the weekend. We
thought we’d come and give you your present.’

‘That’s very kind, Barbara. It’s a bit of a trek up and down in the one day just to give me a present. It could have waited.’ I’m feeling reckless now. She’s
not getting away with it this time.

‘
Oh!
’ She says again. She stares at me, not sure how to react. ‘We brought the sleeping bags; we can doss on the floor,’ she ventures.

I don’t care any more. I’ve had enough. I’m forty and it’s time to draw a line in the sand. Literally. I draw a breath. I can sense Liz and Jennie waiting for my
response. Bill is collecting periwinkles with the kids while Tom and Steve skim stones along the waves. Gulls circle and squeal. My lovely day is not going to be ruined.

Do it, do it,
a voice urges.

I swallow, hard. And then I think, to hell with her. She’s not my friend and never had been. She’s just someone I have to put up with.

‘Actually, Barbara.’ I come to a stop and eyeball her. ‘I’ve been meaning to say this for a while. The cottage really is too small for all of us and I don’t like
putting the girls out of their beds. It’s not fair. And while we’re on the subject, if you don’t mind, this year and from now on, I’d like to spend my holidays alone with
the girls. Our time is precious and that two weeks I have off in the summer is the only decent chunk of time I get to spend with them. There are nice, reasonably priced hotels and B&Bs in the
area. I’m sure you can find somewhere cheap ’n’ cheerful to stay. And to be honest, I’d prefer if you would give me advance notice if you are coming down, to see if it
suits. It would makes life easier for me in case we’ve made plans and so on.’ I’m on a roll. It’s actually exhilarating.

Barbara lowers her gaze first. Two ruby spots stain her cheeks. ‘I see,’ she says tightly, thin-lipped. ‘Fair enough.’ She can’t hide her shock.

‘Great, that’s sorted. Let’s go and put the kettle on,’ I suggest brightly. I’m elated. I’ve done it. I’ve said my piece. I can’t believe it.
‘Let’s head back to the cottage, I’m sure you’d like a cuppa before you head back home,’ I say lightly but pointedly.

‘Very kind,’ Barbara says sarcastically, nostrils flaring but I’m beyond caring and I raise my face to the sun’s pale yellow light and feel the merest hint of heat that
reminds me that winter is over, the days are getting longer and we have much to look forward to.

‘Well done, Amy,’ Liz murmurs as we pour steaming tea into mugs ten minutes later. ‘You should have done that years ago.’

‘I know.’ I sigh. ‘I wish I had, but better late than never.’

Barbara is chatting to Jennie on the deck; her brittle tones carry in on the breeze. ‘She’s raging, look at the face on her, it would stop a clock.’ Liz chuckles as my
sister-in-law flashes a daggers look in our direction.

I start laughing too. ‘I don’t care. She’s a snooty little wagon and she’s used me for the last time.’

‘
Loved
the dig about New York. There was no answer to that. Forty suits you, keep it up.’ My sister grins.

‘When the Keegans get up to go, let them go,’ I whisper to Steve in the kitchen a while later. ‘I’ve had a word with Barbara. It’s been a long time
coming.’

‘Fine,’ he agrees. ‘If that’s what you want.’

‘It is. My present to myself I smile at him. He hugs me.

They leave half an hour later. Barbara can’t bring herself to give me her usual air kiss as her kids protest loudly. ‘But we want to stay! You
said
we were
staying.’

‘Sorry, not this time,’ Steve says firmly, seeing them to the door.

A weight lifts off my shoulders. I’m free. Roll on summer.

How do you know when a friendship is over . . . kaputt . . . past its sell-by date?

I’m sitting in a coffee shop, waiting to meet my oldest ‘friend’ to tell her that her daughter will not be invited to my daughter’s forthcoming birthday party and that,
in fact, she will no longer be part of my daughter’s circle of friends.

I take a sip of creamy latte. My stomach feels slightly fluttery as apprehension grips me. Yet I know this moment has been coming for a long time. It was something I should have done many months
ago but I’d stubbornly held onto the notion that Victoria Cassidy and I had a long, enduring friendship. Who was I kidding? And what did it say about me and my ostrich-like behaviour that I
still thought like that?

We were a strange pair, Victoria and I. Even as kids, the contrast between us was striking. We both lived on the same street, Victoria three doors down from me. She bird-like, gangly, driven to
succeed, me short, plumpish, easy-going. Chalk and cheese. As a child I didn’t realize that Victoria felt superior to me. That came later as I grew up and gained a modicum of self-knowledge
and self-awareness.

I certainly didn’t feel superior to Victoria then, but I felt
sorry
for her. There
is
a difference. Victoria’s parents were divorced. Her father left
Victoria’s mam and moved in with a toned, tanned estate agent he’d met at the gym, when Victoria was seven, just a little younger than our daughters are now. It must have been horrific,
I think, still able to feel sorry for Victoria for all the pain, grief and anxiety she’d endured as a child.

I can remember her little, pinched, worried face as she knuckled down to her studies, even then, so that she could get a good job and become very rich so her mam wouldn’t have to worry
about bills. She was never going to get married, she told me.

Victoria was very possessive of our friendship and hated it if I played with the other kids. I was outgoing and friendly and railed against her sulks and tantrums and ‘Do you like
so-and-so better than me?’ interrogations. Now, of course, I can see how completely insecure she was, and how the fear of rejection informed all of her behaviour, right into adult life.

‘You have to be kind to Victoria,’ my mam would insist when I’d moan that I was sick of her and didn’t want to play with her any more. ‘See how lucky you are. Our
family has fun; we have Dad to take care of us and have good times with.’

‘Yeah, but she says things about us. She says we’re silly ’cos we believe in Santa and go to pantos and that’s only for kids.’

‘She’s only jealous, Claire, take no notice,’ my mother said kindly ignoring my fierce, bubbling resentment and making me feel mean for moaning.

How old patterns repeat themselves. I’d been saying the same sort of thing to my eight-year-old daughter, Joanna, about Victoria’s daughter, Kristen.

Joanna and Kristen had been ‘friends’ since they were born with only six weeks between them. And it was like watching a re-run of my relationship with Victoria: Kristen pushy,
driven, combative, competitive; Joanna open, laid back, cheerful, and very soft-hearted.

My heart melted as I thought of my beloved daughter. She was such a good kid and a loyal friend and Kristen had never valued her, had only nagged and niggled at her, comparing and contrasting
her own edgy, unsatisfactory existence with Joanna’s happy-go-lucky, and very secure environment.

Don’t get me wrong. Kristen has a very affluent lifestyle. Victoria and her husband Stuart are both well off, successful lawyers with a flourishing practice. They’d met at college
and Victoria had found a soulmate, someone as ambitious and driven and hungry for success as she. They married when they qualified and set up practice together. Now theirs is the biggest legal
practice in town. They have three foreign holidays every year, a villa on a golf club near Puerto Banus, flashy cars, a big house and private schooling for Kristen.

Kristen has her own TV and DVD in her bedroom, a computer, Wii, iPod, iPhone, everything her little heart desires, while my Joanna shares a bedroom with her younger sister Rosie, is allowed
computer time and TV time, and goes to the country for six weeks in the summer, to a mobile home.

‘I’m so lucky I have my own room and all my own stuff, I can watch what I want and do what I want, that’s much better than your stupid “family time” ’,
Kristen had boasted recently. Joanna had been fire-engine red with rage.

‘Mam, Kristen said our family time is stupid. She’s really rude. I’m sick of her saying things about us all the time.’

‘And what do
you
think? Do you think our family time is stupid?’ I enquired, used to their squabbling.

‘No, I think it’s fun,’ Joanna declared, little freckled nose flaring in indignation.

We have a rule in our house that everyone sits down to the family meal together. The TV is turned off, computers put to sleep, and for an hour or two my husband, Sean and I sit and natter with
our kids about their day at school and our day at work.

Kristen had stayed for dinner once and had been aghast that the TV had been turned off in the middle of
Drake and Josh.

‘I’ll eat my dinner on a tray,’ she insisted.

‘No, you won’t. You can sit at the table with us. This is our family time,’ I’d explained.

‘But I always eat my dinner in front of the TV. My child-minder lets me,’ she whined.

‘Nope, come on, sit with us and eat up,’ I’d instructed firmly, watching her cross little face and thinking how like her mother she was at that age. She’d sat sulkily,
while the girls and I began to talk about the events of our day as Sean ladled spoonfuls of tasty chicken casserole onto her plate.

In spite of herself, she began to eat. She always cleared her plate in our house. Her childminder fed her pizzas and processed meals that could be heated up in a microwave so a home-cooked meal
was a rare treat.

Kristen hadn’t made her ‘family time is stupid’ announcement in my hearing. She knew better. I always took her to task if she stepped over a boundary, much to her annoyance,
but I could imagine her superior little face, with her blonde hair tossed back, as she made her cutting remark to Joanna. She knew how to push my daughter’s buttons, and as they got older
their relationship was becoming more fractured and factitious.