Friends Like Us (42 page)

‘Really?'

‘Well, a counsellor,' Eilis laughed. ‘You know my mum… I never did quite talk about it enough…' she trailed off.

‘That sounds like a good idea. You're very brave, Eilis. That was one of the things I most loved about you.'

‘Loved?'

‘Love.' He smiled at her.

‘
Loved
is better. But thank you for trying to save my feelings.'

‘Listen, may I have a cup of tea? Please? I'm gasping.'

She stood up and began filling the kettle.

‘By the way,' she said. ‘Make sure you take your kettle with you when you go. I'm going out to buy a new one this afternoon. One that doesn't require a gadget just to have a cup of tea.'

It was to be the first Christmas without Nuala, the first time Steph wouldn't be buying her a present. A festive frenzy had descended on Dublin, madness was in the air, and it was the seemingly small things that stopped Steph in her tracks these days. It seemed so wrong not to buy Nuala something. She left Grafton Street and began walking down Nassau Street. At the National Gallery she paused and looked through the big doors. She used to love this place, spend all her time here, going for lectures, sketching some of her favourite paintings, meeting friends in the café. She hadn't been here for years. And to think that for all this time, it had been here and she had forsaken it.

She pushed open the doors. At last, here was somewhere she could breathe. The high ceilings, the quiet hush, it was soothing and reassuring after the bedlam of outside. She walked straight upstairs and found the Caravaggio and it was there, sitting on a bench, she began to cry. She had kept everything together for so long, desperate to help Rachel through this tumultuous time in their lives that she hadn't taken enough time to cry for herself. For Nuala, for Joe, for her marriage, for Rachel. For herself.

Quiet and semi-dark, after the crazy cacophony of Grafton Street, it was like being in church. The painting's beauty and the sense of awe it always inspired in her never failed to work its magic but never before had it made her cry and, for a long time, she sat there sobbing and sobbing. The silent security guard shuffled around discretely, ignoring her, as though a woman crying in front of a painting was an entirely normal part of his day. She wondered if The National Gallery was a popular place for people in the throes of a breakdown.

A couple of visitors neared the bench and quickly veered away. Eventually, Steph's tears became snivels and she realised she had created an invisible exclusion zone in which tourists and art lovers avoided her. I can't believe I have basically prevented all these people from seeing the Caravaggio, she thought, realizing she would never be able to return. There was nothing to do except sneak out, burglar-like.

‘And now, in this room we have the jewel in the collection…' a loud voice was saying as a group of Japanese tourists all wearing earpieces shuffled into the room.

Oh no, thought Steph, hiding her face, tear-streaked, puffy and red.

‘The great Italian painter Caravaggio painted this in Rome 1602. How the painting found its way to the National Gallery is an interesting story…' The voice went on, echoing around the room.

Steph lifted herself off the bench and began to tiptoe to the door.

‘It was discovered, dusty and forgotten in the home of…' the commanding voice dropped to an insistent whisper, ridiculously audible through the microphone. ‘Steph? Steph Sheridan?'

Steph looked at the tour guide through puffy pinpricks of eyes. ‘It's me Eileen. Jesus Christ! I don't believe it!' She was still speaking through the microphone. All the tourists were looking at the two of them, totally ignoring the Caravaggio. Eileen! Eileen, her friend from college.

‘One moment ladies and gentlemen…' said Eileen, and then to Steph. ‘Don't you dare move or I will kill you… okay?' She gave Steph a delighted thumbs-up before smoothly returning to her tour-guide voice.

‘So here in this painting… we have the interplay between light and darkness…' Eileen continued, speaking far too quickly for the foreigners, unused to her accent, to follow. And then never had a tour been wrapped up to so quickly (‘andthat'sitfortodayfeelfreetowanderandthanksforcoming!') before Steph and Eileen were hugging each other.

‘I can't believe it's you. I thought you were in the West!' said Steph.

‘Was. Then London. Got married but now here, newly divorced – I ditched the Italian – Salvatore – what was I thinking? I may as well have married a Martian. Oh My God, it's
such
a relief to be home, with
normal
people again. It's great to see you. Do you know, I was just thinking of you and Pippa the other day, remember that time in Achill?'

‘Achill. Oh God, yes. That was crazy. I haven't touched tequila since.' They looked at each other.

‘And Rome!'

‘Yes, Rome,' said Steph, weakly, thinking that she had ruined Rome forever, after her last doomed trip.

‘So, elephant in the gallery,' said Eileen. ‘You look like you've been crying.'

Steph nodded, feeling the tears welling up again. ‘It's nothing… I mean… well apart from divorce for me too and death… my mother…' She began to cry again.

Eileen linked her arm through Steph's. ‘Let's go to the cafe for some tea.'

Downstairs, Steph told Eileen everything.

‘Snap,' said Eileen. ‘My Mam too… five years ago…'

‘I'm so sorry, I didn't hear.'

Eileen shrugged. ‘It's okay… She had dementia in the end… but I try to remember her when she was young. And funny. And my Mam.'

Eileen topped up their cups from the pot.

‘It's just it's all so raw, still, you know?' said Steph.

Eileen nodded. ‘Give yourself time, okay? It's not a competition about who can get over huge life changes the fastest. Death, divorce. They're the biggies.'

‘I know,' said Steph. ‘It was nice just coming here. Time on my own. I have the chance for a new start, but I haven't quite started yet.'

‘Time enough. Stay in limbo for as long as you need. You'll know when you're ready to brave real life again.'

And then Steph told her about Rick.

‘We've never been happy, actually, if I'm honest. And it's not my fault – or his. He was horrible, and then it became the worst mess imaginable. We stayed for Rachel but ended up making everything worse, to be honest. My job now is to make it up to her.'

‘Salvatore and I never… we didn't have a child… made it easier to leave, I suppose. So every cloud… I would have liked a mini-Eileen though, or even a mini-Salvie. I would have called it some fiendish Irish name, though, to annoy his family. Something they couldn't spell.'

They looked at each other, grinning.

‘It's good to see you, Eileen.'

‘You too, Steph. You know, despite your
annus horribilis
, you're looking good.'

‘I'm not, I look terrible.'

‘No, you were always gorgeous. Haven't lost it, you know.'

Steph blushed. Eileen was always good for making you feel better.

‘So,' said Eileen. ‘Are you working?'

‘Gave it all up when I was married. I know, I know…' she said in response to Eileen's quizzical eyebrow. ‘Haven't worked since. I've missed it. A lot.'

‘Well, I've an idea. They need someone to do tours here. I'm only filling in – maternity leave, before I start teaching. What about it? Four days a week, tours every two hours. And there's other work too, cataloguing. Might be worth thinking about? It's a start.'

‘Oh God. I don't know anything anymore.' But the very thought, the very idea, suddenly filled her with possibilities and excitement. Could she?

‘Maybe you could start refreshing your memory. Do you still have your Gombrich?'

‘Of course.'

‘Well, dust it down. Blow off the cobwebs and give it a go. There is a training course starting next week. You need an art history degree, which you have. And the ability to talk to the public. Which I know you have too.'

‘I have to say yes, don't I?' The idea was growing and growing on her. This was a chance for her to do something. This was a second chance.

‘Yes, yes you do. I'm going to put your name down for the course. It takes two weeks. I think you'd be brilliant. I'm your sponsor or whatever it is. Say yes.'

‘Okay, yes, then.'

‘Good.' Eileen was smiling at her.

Steph could feel a tingling, like her phoenix feathers were sprouting. I'm doing it, Mam, she thought. Look! I'm doing it.

Melissa already had two freelance commissions and was working on her contacts. She'd really let them go in the last few years, but it was time to reignite her career. It was so frightening to be on her own but liberating too. She didn't dare to feel excited, but there was some unnameable feeling inside her that if she didn't know any better she might just have labelled it excitement. And she had started sketching ideas for a novel… it was going to be about a young girl in the late 1960s who found herself unmarried and pregnant…

She had even bought a small Christmas tree for her flat. It was a symbol that she was celebrating and embracing her new life. She toasted it with a glass of sparkling apple juice. Her new business cards were ready from the printers, so she took the bus into town and battled the people and traffic of George's Street, when she saw someone she recognized.

A woman was striding along the street, dressed in a long camel overcoat. While everyone else was in unflattering woolly hats, she wore her brown hair down her back and she wore long boots and a fur scarf.

Erica.

Melissa didn't know whether to smile and wave or to duck down and keep walking. Erica looked her usual gorgeous self. She didn't even seem bothered by the abysmally-dismal weather. Melissa wondered about Erica and Cormie's first Christmas together. Would they be roasting a goose or a turkey? Organic, obviously. Or maybe some kind of Gwyneth Paltrow-inspired nut roast, all chia seeds and baobab (whatever that was).

‘Melissa!' She had been spotted. Immediately she felt awful for skulking around. It wasn't Erica's fault that she and Cormie had met and fallen in love. She was blameless. It was she, Melissa, who had brought all this misery on herself.

‘Erica!' She smiled, faking her surprise delight.

‘I thought it was you, buttoned up. It's so hard to tell what people look like in this weather.'

‘Yes, it's total pants, isn't it?'

Erica looked puzzled.

‘It's pretty bad, that's what I meant,' Melissa explained. She was dying to ask how Cormac was… was he okay? Was he eating? Was he still beautiful? Was he still alive? She hadn't seen him since Nora and Walter's party. It had seemed so strange to carry on with life without him, and all the things that had happened to her since them. She lost a job and gained a sister. Not bad going.

‘Yeah, y'know,' Erica was saying. ‘I don't think I can do another Irish winter. It's not the cold, it's the constant drizzle. It's so not good for my body, y'know?'

‘It's not good for mine, either,' agreed Melissa. ‘It's not good for anyone's. That's why they invented the Aran sweater. It's the only thing you should wear in Ireland. And a tweed cap. You should get one.'

Erica looked confused and then tried to laugh. ‘Oh, you're joking again. Cormie always said you had a great sense of humour.'

‘Right…' said Melissa, wondering how to end the encounter and not wishing to know about Eric and Cormie's life together.

‘So…' Erica took charge of the conversation. ‘I'm heading back to the States. Better weather, for one. Nicer food and I think… I think it's a good move. Professionally and personally. I'm leaving tomorrow.'

Melissa quickly put aside her indignation of the casual assassination of her nation and desperately thought of Cormac. He was leaving? But what about the bakery? And Rolo? He would never survive quarantine… he wasn't… no, he wasn't going to give him to the pound? Not Rolo. Thoughts of poor Rolo locked in the cage, desperately seeking a new owner were interrupted by Erica, saying: ‘You didn't know about me and Cormie?'

‘No…' said Melissa, miserably, as the drizzle segued into rain. And Cormac on the other side of the Atlantic, time zones away.

‘Well,' she said. ‘It wasn't working. He's super nice and everything but he doesn't have the drive of guys from the US? He's easy-going, too easy-going.'

‘He's not going with you?' Melissa dared to hope.

‘We've broken up,' said Erica. ‘No, he would never leave Ireland anyway. He's a home boy.'

‘And of course Rolo.' Melissa almost punched the air. Of course Cormac would never leave Ireland. He loved the rain too much.

‘That dog! Don't talk to me about that dog. It was always scratching at his fleas.'

‘I don't think Rolo has fleas,' said Melissa stiffly, thinking that Erica could slag off Ireland if she wanted to, it was, after all a free would, but criticising Rolo was going too far. ‘He's pristine. He's a dog who takes his personal hygiene very seriously.'

‘Yeah, right.' Erica was sceptical. ‘Anyway,' she looked away for a moment. ‘I think Cormie is in love with someone else?'

Melissa was again plunged into the depths of despair. What fresh hell is this? Who was this new rival?

‘Really? Who is it?' she asked, weakly.

‘Just someone he can't get out of his head. Someone he's been in love with forever.'

Melissa racked her brain. It wasn't… it couldn't be…

‘Someone who might just love him back,' said Erica.

‘Who?' croaked Melissa. ‘Who?'