Best of Friends (48 page)

“Hold on, I’m sure it’s here somewhere in my directory …” She found the number and recited it slowly.

“Thanks a million,” Erin said gratefully.

“No bother. Any time,” said the woman, and hung up after saying goodbye.

Although she was sitting in the cool sanctuary of her beautiful new apartment, Erin’s mind was in the small hall of number seventy-eight, where the phone had sat on a low table under a print of an Irish country cottage. She wondered if the new owners had moved the phone. Probably. But Erin would never forget talking to her friends from school on that phone, perched on the bottom stair, the phone cord stretched across the old rug.

The country cottage print had been as much part of the scenery in the hall as the coatstand and the red and black floor tiles. The print had faded over time but Mum had always loved it and refused to move it. Erin could see the picture with incredible clarity: the cottage nestling in the crook of hills that loomed purple with heather. Mum had been brought up in a house not unlike that in a small village in County Wexford, that was why she loved it.

“Bet you couldn’t wait to get out of the back end of nowhere,” Kerry said once, but her mother had looked wistful.

“There’s more to life than city smoke,” she pointed out. “One day, you’ll see.”

Erin hoped that wherever her grandparents had moved to they were free of both city smoke and thugs, and could see mountains purple with heather in the background.

She dialled the Maguires and got an answering machine, so she hung up to think what she’d say. This would not be any ordinary message.

“Hello, this is Erin Flynn who used to live at number seventy-eight. I was hoping to speak to some of the Maguire family who could help me trace the whereabouts of the Flynns.” She reeled off her number and said that if the Maguires phoned and she was out, she’d phone right back. “Please call. Bye.”

All she had to do now was wait.

The phone rang at four that afternoon as Erin was packing away groceries. She leaped for the receiver, or leaped as quickly as a pregnant woman can—Erin’s waist had long since disappeared and she’d put on eighteen pounds, so her days of leaping were gone.

“Hello?”

“Is this Erin?” It was a woman’s voice but not one she recognised.

“Yes.”

“This is Geena Maguire, I married Clark, remember?”

Erin could remember Clark all right, Vanessa’s geeky older brother. Vanessa and Kerry used to predict that poor old Clark would never find a girlfriend because he was too weird, with his long dark hair and the earring, which he thought made him look cool but which the girls reckoned made him look even geekier. Geena, she didn’t remember. Good for Clark.

“Of course I remember Clark, but you two must have got married after I’d left.”

“Well,” Geena said thoughtfully, “we’re five years married now because little Poppy is just four. We live here and Mrs. Maguire lives with her sister in Liverpool. Vanessa’s in Ballsbridge. She’s got her own public relations firm now, did you know that?”

“No,” said Erin. There were so many things she didn’t know.

“What happened anyway that made you run off?” asked Geena inquisitively. “I always wanted to know but Vanessa wouldn’t tell me.”

“Just a silly family row,” Erin said quickly. “I’m in a bit of a rush, Geena—is Vanessa in the phone book or can you give me her number?”

“Lady Muck in the phone book? Lord no, but you can find her under VMPR. Vampire, that’s what I call it. Get it? Ha ha.”

Vanessa’s staff certainly protected her as if she was a descendant of Count Dracula who needed shielding from people wielding stakes.

Erin had tried explaining that she was an old friend who just needed a few words with Vanessa but the VMPR staff weren’t giving an inch. Even Erin’s ballbusting get-past-anyone routine didn’t work. She left her number, expecting it to be filed in the black plastic filing cabinet. She’d have to think of some other way of tracing her family. Perhaps a trip to Kilbarrett would help.

Two days passed and July became August. Erin sat with a Dublin phone book and tried every avenue she could think of to track the Flynn family. She was sure they’d stay in Dublin and she was trying to work her way through the huge list of Flynns. The estate agent who’d sold the house didn’t keep records of where people moved to and the Post Office wouldn’t give out information on change of address.

“There must be relatives you could contact,” Greg suggested that evening as they sat on their small balcony beside the two azaleas in pots that made up their garden.

“There are,” Erin said, cursing the fact that she hadn’t paid much attention to her aunts and uncles when she was a kid, “but I don’t have their numbers and there’s no joy in the phone book. Dad’s three brothers were all older, and Mum’s sister lives outside Manchester, I don’t know where, although we went there once on holiday.”

She thought that she could recognise her Uncle Larry’s house in Phibsboro if she saw it, but she had no idea of the address and none of the Flynns listed in Phibsboro in the phone book had turned out to be Uncle Larry.

“I’m a moron,” she said dismally. “How could I not know these things?”

“You’re not a moron,” Greg said comfortingly. “You’re normal. I mean, look at my Aunt Lily. I know her house like I know my parents’ house but I don’t know her phone number. I’ve an idea—why don’t we hire a private investigator? Investigators know how to trace people properly.”

Erin considered this. The idea of using a private investigator to find her family was sensible but just highlighted what an utter mess she’d made of things. Hiring an investigator to trace a family you’d never met was one thing; hiring one to find a family you’d turned your back on was another entirely.

“I suppose you’re right,” she said, staring out at the view of the estuary. Their second-floor apartment was situated on high ground from where they had a view of the harbour. The spire of Dunmore church and the faux battlements of the Victorian Hotel could be seen reflected in the calm smoky blue of the water. A pleasure cruiser on the water was dwarfed by a passing cargo ship chugging its way into Cork like a giant lorry labouring up a steep incline.

She and Greg were so happy here, Erin realised. The thought of sharing the rest of their lives with their son or daughter had made her so very happy. But being reunited with her family would close the circle, make life complete. Then she’d be content. But that might never happen, and if it didn’t, she’d have to accept it.

Stretching out her hand, she found Greg’s and held it tightly. They sat in comfortable silence.

When the phone rang, Greg uncurled his long body and went inside. Erin strained to hear who it was.

“Vanessa Maguire for you,” said Greg, leaning out of the patio doors.

“Hello, stranger.” Even Vanessa’s voice was the same: faintly hoarse and husky, but definitely with posher overtones than could ever have emerged from Kilbarrett.

“Hi, Vanessa,” said Erin. “Thanks for returning my call. I was afraid you wouldn’t get my message.”

“Are you kidding? If anyone in work forgot to pass on a message to me, they wouldn’t be working for me for much longer.”

Erin grinned. Same old Vanessa. Improved vowel sounds couldn’t disguise the feistiness she’d always possessed. When Kerry and Vanessa had teamed up, the local lads hadn’t stood a chance.

“Where the hell have you been, Erin? Talk about vanishing off the face of the earth.”

Erin sat down on the couch. “Don’t have a go at me, Vanessa,” she begged. “I was stupid, I know, but Kerry didn’t help matters by telling me not to bother phoning again.”

Vanessa snorted. “You know your sister. Her mouth works faster than her brain. She was angry with you, that’s all, and she regretted what she said.”

“But how come nobody ever replied to my letters?” That was what had haunted Erin. She knew that Kerry was hot-headed and might easily have shot her mouth off, telling Erin not to phone back and regretting it later, but letters were different. Not replying to her letters was practically a sign that Erin had been cast out of

the family.

“What letters?” demanded Vanessa sharply.

“The ones I sent afterwards.”

“Nobody told me about any letters and Kerry told me everything,” Vanessa said. “When did you send them?”

“Over four years ago, nearly five,” Erin said, thinking back to when she and Greg had been getting married and he’d encouraged her to try to heal the rift.

“Well, that explains it then. The dozy cow who bought the place wouldn’t have passed anything along.”

“So they probably never got my letters, then?” Erin couldn’t describe the relief she felt. It was like having an enormous weight lifted from her shoulders. Her family hadn’t turned their back on her; they’d simply never received the letters in which she’d begged forgiveness and told them about her new life and about Greg.

“They moved over five years ago.”

“Are they all OK?” Erin was afraid of hearing the answer.

“Fine. Your dad’s great since he had the hip replaced, and your mother’s fighting fit although she isn’t as mobile as she used to be.”

Erin noted that Vanessa called them her parents and not her grandparents. Perhaps Kerry hadn’t told her everything, then. But at least if she’d known, she might understand Erin’s running away. Otherwise, she’d assume Erin was nothing more than a heartless bitch.

Vanessa went on: “And Kerry, well, she’s great considering what she’s been through. She’s a survivor.”

“What’s she been through?” Erin asked rapidly.

“I forgot, you’re out of the loop on that too. That’s what she needed you for, Erin.” For the first time, there was genuine reproach in Vanessa’s voice.

“What?”

“Breast cancer.”

Erin was glad she was sitting down or she’d have fallen to her knees. “Breast cancer?” she repeated, knowing she sounded like the village idiot.

“Yeah. She’s been clear for four years though, so fingers crossed.”

“I can’t believe it. I should have known …” Erin felt so hopeless and helpless. That Kerry should have gone through this horrific disease that had killed Sally and she hadn’t known …

“How could you know?” Vanessa was not the sort of woman to waste time on what might have been. “So, I guess you want to see her?”

“Do you think she’d want to see me?” asked Erin hesitantly.

“Of course she would. She loves you; you’re her sister. She’s changed, Erin. Cancer changed her.”

“I can understand that,” Erin replied softly, thinking of the fear Kerry had gone through without Erin, her sister, to support her. Because that’s what Erin was. They’d been brought up as sisters and that’s what they were in their hearts, no matter that the actual bloodline was more complicated. If only she’d been there for Kerry when she’d been sick.

“I didn’t tell her you’d been in touch,” Vanessa said, “not until I knew what you wanted to do.”

“I want to see her, and Mum and Dad,” Erin said. Please God let them want to see her.

“I’ll phone her and give her your number, then,” Vanessa said matter-of-factly. “Then it’s up to her. Let her talk to your mum and dad—you don’t want to give them a shock at their age.”

“No,” agreed Erin. “Where do they live now?”

“Your mum and dad are in Wexford. They’ve got a cottage on the coast, it’s lovely. Kerry and Peter live in Portlaoise.”

Erin didn’t ask who Peter was. She’d asked enough. Kerry, if she phoned, could tell her the rest.

But there was one more thing she had to ask, even if it was a question that Vanessa couldn’t really answer.

“Do you think they’ll be able to forgive me?” she asked tremulously.

“If it had been my family, I’d say no,” Vanessa remarked. “My mother wouldn’t let me inside the door if I’d buggered off for nine years. But your mum and dad are cut from a different cloth. They’ll be happy to see you.”

“And Kerry?”

“Well, she might give you a clip round the ear,” Vanessa laughed, “but who knows with Kerry? Your sister’s always been one mad mare.”

And with that, Erin had to be content.

Greg was waiting eagerly to see what had happened.

Erin sank back onto her chair on the balcony and told him everything.

“She’ll call,” Greg said confidently.

“But when?” asked Erin. Now that she’d made contact she felt a strange combination of elation and anxiety. There were so many “what ifs.” What if Kerry didn’t get in touch? Or what if she did, only to tell Erin to get the hell out of their lives because she’d hurt them all enough already?

She moved uncomfortably in her chair, rubbing her back with one hand to try to banish the ever-present lower backache.

“Why don’t I run you a bath and you can soak away for an hour?” Greg suggested.

She nodded. The bath was probably the best place for her. There she could sit and mope in solitude.

Fifteen minutes later, she was sitting neck-deep in bubbles with the bathroom door shut. Greg had lit the calming candles he’d bought her when she first knew she was pregnant. He’d spent ages buying them because he knew that some of the aromatherapy scents Erin loved were forbidden in pregnancy.

He was so good to her, Erin thought tearfully. He was a good person and was going to make such a good father. If only she’d listened to him in the first place and made a proper attempt to get in touch with Mum, Dad and Kerry, then she wouldn’t be in this position. You could explain away three or four years of not getting in touch, but not longer, not nine. Nine was turning your back on people.

Their baby deserved to have a family on Erin’s side, and through her stupidity she’d messed that up. When the tears came, they ran down her cheeks in floods. She never heard the phone, and when Greg came into the candlelit bathroom with the portable in his hand, he found his wife sobbing.

Taking a towel from the rail, he dried her tears gently.

“It’s Kerry for you,” he said, holding up the phone.

Erin stared at it through wet eyes and then grabbed it. “Hello, Kerry,” she sobbed. “Kerry, it’s Erin. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, Erin, where in God’s name have you been? We missed you,” said Kerry. “We were so worried.”