Best of Friends (20 page)

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” he growled. “It’s all my fault. I said I’d help. I’m just not doing it this weekend.”

“Or last weekend or the weekend before that!” Abby said. “The garden has looked like a disaster area for the past two months but you’ve done nothing.”

Tom finally gave up staring at the television. “Can’t you see that I’m tired?” he said. “Tired of rushing round getting this house sorted out, tired of work, tired full stop.”

“And I’m not tired?” she demanded. “No, I forgot, you have the patent on tiredness because you have a proper job, don’t you, Tom? I only have my little television series and my house decluttering business, none of it as serious as being a precious deputy headmaster. Oh yes, and I have the housework and the grocery shopping and the laundry—”

“Mrs. Regan does the housework,” he interrupted.

“Twice a week for two hours at a time,” Abby yelled back. “She keeps the place ticking over but I have to do the hard grind. Inside and out! Do you have any idea how much work it takes to run a house, to do laundry, shopping, cooking, cleaning? Oh no, I forgot. You think Cooking and Cleaning are two towns in China.”

“Spare me the sarcasm,” he said acidly. “Are you running through your answers for a newspaper interview on the successful working woman? Is that it? You’re going to tell everyone how hard it is for the modern career woman because she has to juggle a job and housework, with a lazy lout of a husband who does nothing and doesn’t appreciate her efforts?”

This was so precisely what had been running through Abby’s mind that she could say nothing for a moment, but just glare at him. Finally, she found her voice. “If you know what’s wrong with me, why don’t you do anything about it?” she snapped.

“It’s not my aim in life to please you all the time, Abby,” Tom said with grim relish. “They may do that in Beech TV studios, where you’re queen of all you survey, but not here. Not in our home.”

“That’s utterly unfair,” she yelled back. “I’m not a bit like that and you know it! All I’m asking for is a little help around the house. You used to help, but now you do nothing. Since we moved to this house, I don’t think you’ve done one week’s grocery shopping or have loaded the washing machine once. It wouldn’t kill you to make an effort.”

“You were the one who wanted to go back to work,” he pointed out.

“And you’re the one who enjoys the benefits of the extra money,” she replied, without thinking of what she was saying.

“Oh yes, never let me forget that, will you? You’re the successful one, the famous one, I’m only the boring old husband standing in the wings.” Abby was shocked at the bitterness in his voice. “You love that, don’t you, Abby? You love making more money than me. You love rubbing my nose in it.”

“No, I don’t,” she said quietly, before walking out.

Her hands were shaking as she made a cup of tea. She’d never realised before quite how much he resented her job and the changes it had made. He might have liked living in a big and luxurious home, but he couldn’t cope with the fact that her earnings had brought them there. Did he feel that her success had somehow emasculated him? He couldn’t, surely. He was just being childish. Childish and lazy.

Abby flung the used teaspoon in the sink to join Tom’s dirty cup and plate. If he couldn’t be bothered to put things in the dishwasher, then neither would she. And when the house was a slum with no clean dishes and no clean clothes, perhaps
then
he’d cop on to how hard she worked.

Coming up Briar Lane, Jess realised that she hadn’t thought about the exams for at least an hour. Which was good, because when she did think about them, she got this weird ache in the back of her neck that crept up into her head and sort of bounced against her skull. Nothing made it go away except lying in the bath, and you couldn’t very well do that four times a day. But thinking about the animal refuge meant she hadn’t time to worry about the exams. Tonight would help too. She was helping Sally Richardson with the boys later, so that Sally could get ready for the party. Jess loved the relaxed atmosphere in the Richardsons’ house: there was always an air of laughter and good humour, not like at home.

A plastic bag of garden rubbish and a big gardening fork were sitting inside the gate when she got home but there was no sign of either Mum or Dad. Jess hoped she wouldn’t be roped into picking up leaves or anything. She hated gardening, apart from that time in science class, when they’d all grown shoots from a bean.

Her mother was standing in the kitchen, dressed in old clothes and reading a newspaper laid out on the counter top.

“Oh, Mum, I met this amazing woman today who runs the animal rescue centre,” Jess began enthusiastically. “She had this gorgeous puppy, Twiglet. Imagine, people dumped him and his brother in a refuse bag on a building site, but he’s fine now.”

Her mother didn’t respond, so Jess continued. “They’re trying to save the animal refuge because they don’t have enough money, and this woman said if I wanted to, I could volunteer to help out. They always need people to feed puppies and kittens, and to clean up.” Jess felt a fresh surge of pride at the thought that this total stranger had trusted her enough to offer her a volunteer job. “I can do weekends.”

“What about your exams?” said Abby, unnecessarily sharp. As soon as she’d spoken, she regretted it. What did exams matter when this animal refuge had brought a smile to her daughter’s face for the first time in months.

But the shutters had already come down and Jess assumed the blank mantle of teenage indifference.

“Whatever,” she said, turning towards the door. “Forget it.”

“I didn’t mean it to sound like that,” Abby said but Jess was gone. Within seconds, she heard the thump of Jess’s boots on the stairs and then the slamming of her door.

Abby gave up on the notion that if she read the papers standing up then she wouldn’t get too comfortable to return to the wilderness that was the garden. She pulled out a chair and slumped down on it. She felt she was a failure—a failure at motherhood. If she was a failure at being a wife, then Tom had to shoulder a large percentage of the blame. But failing at being a good mother was all her own work.

Abby felt a huge desire to go upstairs, climb into bed and pull the covers over her head. But she couldn’t. She had to finish the garden and go to the party. Sally had asked Jess to keep an eye on the boys, so the whole Barton clan would be there trying to pretend that they were playing happy families. Abby wistfully remembered when they had been a happy family for real.

Erin got cold feet at the last minute.

“Do we have to go?” She turned slanting amber eyes on Greg, who was shaving, while she lay up to her shoulders in a steaming bath, with her hair trailing down into a cloud of vanilla-scented bubbles. With candles all around the bath and a haze of vapour in the air, she could almost forget the nightmare pink bath and the awful purple paisley wallpaper.

“No, you stay. That’s a wonderful idea, Erin. I’ll go and chat up the local women,” Greg said firmly. “I won’t be late. Back by tomorrow lunch at the latest. You don’t mind, do you? I won’t have sex with anyone, I’ll just mess around some …”

Erin flicked a splodge of bubble bath up at him with her right foot.

“You’ve a lousy aim,” Greg remarked, washing the bits of shaving foam from his face and splashing on Eau Sauvage. He perched on the edge of the bath and leaned down as if to kiss her but suddenly reached across to her toes and pulled the plug out.

“Creep,” wailed Erin. “I was enjoying that.”

“I thought you liked Sally.”

“I do, she’s great. It’s just that I feel like slobbing out tonight.” Erin felt like slobbing out all the time these days, which was weird and very unlike her.

“Steve’s been good to me,” Greg pointed out. “I’ve got to go, but if you really don’t want to, I can say you’re not well.”

“Nah.” Rising like Venus from the foam, Erin pulled a towel round herself. “Forget it,” she said in a fake schoolmarm voice as Greg reached a probing hand under the towel. “You’re on rations after that crack about flirting with the local women.”

eleven

D
elia pulled the last tray of savoury pastry squares out of the oven and dropped it on the kitchen table. “Finished,” she said. “If I never see another bit of pastry again, I’ll be happy.”

Sally, who was sitting on a stool at the table constructing a pyra-mid of profiteroles with architectural precision, smiled. “I know what you mean. The only fatal flaw with parties is the catering.”

“Absolutely,” agreed her mother-in-law fervently. “But what I hate most is that moment just before everyone arrives when you’ve got the place beautiful, but you feel shattered and you wish you could cancel so you could spend the evening slumped in front of the box.”

Sally glanced up at Delia sharply. That was just how she was feel-ing but she didn’t want her mother-in-law to know. Normally Sally had enough energy for ten parties and Delia would get suspicious if she noticed otherwise. However, Delia’s face bore no awareness of that fact and she was busily using a palette knife to slide her just-cooked canapés from the tray.

Steve arrived in from the garden, having finished hanging lots of tiny white lights from the veranda and the apple trees.

“Smells good,” he said, picking up a pastry and wolfing it down. He reached for another but his mother rapped his knuckles with her palette knife.

“Stop it! We won’t have enough, you big gannet.”

Steve grinned. “It’s nearly five,” he said. “I’m going to collect the boys from that birthday party.”

Sally left the profiteroles and followed him out to the front door. Now that they were alone, Steve put his arms round her and held her tightly. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” she said brightly. “You’d better get going. We’ve got a hundred people coming here in two and a half hours, don’t forget. And we’ve got to do the glasses, give the boys dinner and get ready.”

“No problemo,” said Steve, his tone matching hers. “Jess is coming at six to look after the boys, isn’t she?”

“Yes, so we should be nearly ready but for last-minute things.”

“I still have to make the punch, but I promise, it’ll be very mild,” Steve said with a wicked grin.

“I hope so …” Sally wriggled out of his arms. “I’m warning you, one drunk partygoer this time and you’ll be in big trouble.”

“Is that a promise or an idle threat?” he asked wickedly.

Sally shot him her most innocent look. “You’ll have to wait and see,” she said, and went back to finish making the dessert.

Erin and Greg’s taxi reached the Richardsons’ at exactly seven thirty.

There wasn’t a single car parked on the road outside.

“They did say seven thirty, didn’t they?” Erin asked.

“They did.” Greg paid the driver, who sped off. “Maybe everyone else is being fashionably late.”

“Or we’re unfashionably early. I hope we didn’t get it wrong. There’s nothing worse than finding the host and hostess in bath-towels with no make-up on.”

“If Steve is planning to wear make-up, then we know we’re in trouble,” Greg replied.

“You know what I mean, smarty-pants.”

“Hello!” Steve stood at the front door. “Come in. Lovely to see you. Welcome.”

“We’re not too early, I hope?” Erin proffered a china pot with an African violet, while Greg handed over a bottle of wine.

“Not early at all. I need some help to make a killer punch.”

“No you don’t!” said Sally, hurrying to the door and fiddling with an earring. “If you see him putting anything dangerous in that punch, call me. I want this to be a nice, non-plastered party.”

“Oh, no,” said Greg, deadpan. “If that’s the case, we’ll go home. I’ve been looking forward to a bit of drunken debauchery with shades of the last days of the Roman Empire.”

Sally groaned. “There I was, hoping that at least we’d have some friends who didn’t know about our disreputable parties and Steve has to ruin it all.”

“He didn’t tell me anything,” Greg said innocently. “It was on the office bulletin board.”

“Oh, you two …” Sally pretended to take a swipe at Greg but kissed him hello instead. “I can see why you and Steve get on so well.”

“They share a juvenile sense of humour,” whispered Erin as she hugged Sally hello. “But don’t tell them I said that.”

After that, the doorbell never stopped ringing as scores more people turned up, clutching wine and flowers. Music and conversation flowed and Erin and Greg were swept into meeting what seemed like the whole of Dunmore. Everyone was so charming and interested in the newcomers, and Greg was in his element, talking animatedly to their new neighbours. But for the first time in her life, Erin felt as if she just couldn’t make conversation. Several times she caught Greg looking at her quizzically as she remained silent, as if to say what the hell was wrong with her. Erin wished she knew.

Lizzie wasn’t sure about the new blouse she was wearing. In the trendy shop on the quays, with a sweet young sales assistant hovering, telling her it was “really now,” Lizzie had felt that she was perfectly entitled to wear a filmy chiffon top that was cut so low in the front, it could almost qualify as a handy-for-breast-feeding outfit in a mother-and-baby catalogue.

At home, with a sherry inside her for Dutch courage, it made her look modern and young, she decided. On the footpath outside the Richardsons’, she peered down her front yet again and wondered if she had crossed the invisible style line between youthful chic and sinewy old mutton dressed as lamb. Home was only five minutes away; she could just nip through the laneway and change …

“Lizzie, lovely to see you,” yelled a man climbing out of a car.

“Hello, how
are
you?” shrieked his wife.

Lizzie rearranged the navy jacket she was wearing over the blouse, hoped she might get away with wearing the jacket all night, although it was a warm evening, and smiled.

“Margo and Ken,” she replied, “lovely to see you too.”

What Steve and Sally’s cottage lacked in size or luxury, it made up for in sheer homely style, Lizzie thought. A modest redbricked barn conversion with low ceilings, a dormer upstairs in one half, and a vast spacious floor-to-eaves room in the other, it looked fantastic decorated for the party. Outside at the front, scores of tiny white fairy lights were draped artfully over the apple trees and over the doorway, which had a tiny sloping roof like a house from a Hans Christian Andersen story. Inside, the whole of the big recep-tion room was twinkling with fairy lights and candles. The French windows were open at the far end of the room, with its squashy old armchairs and sofas, and Lizzie could see candle-covered tables set up on the old flagstones outside and long garden tapers stuck into the flowerbeds, flickering among the frothing love-in-a-mist. At the other end of the room was the kitchen, with a scrubbed refectory table, an ancient cream-coloured range, and a collection of free-standing kitchen units that covered each of the past fifty years in furniture design. Steve stood at the table behind a vast collection of bottles of every colour, merrily doling out huge glasses of booze, while Sally’s dark curly head could be seen as she flitted amongst her guests, chattering and hugging people, and telling everyone how delighted she was to see them. Enviably slim, in her iridescent dress she looked like a tiny butterfly shimmering in the candlelight. Goodwill hung in the air like children’s bubbles. Despite her last-minute nerves, Lizzie was glad to be there.