The Art of Friendship (24 page)

‘We’re friends. Good friends.’

‘Better friends than you and I?’ she heard herself say and opened her eyes.

‘At the moment that wouldn’t be hard, would it?’ he said with a derisive snort and then, seeing her wince, he added solemnly, ‘I’m sorry. But let’s be honest with each other, Clare. We haven’t been getting along very well this past while, have we?’ He paused and looked at the duvet. ‘I have to be honest with you. Gillian and I…well, we’re very close. Not in a physical way. Nothing has happened between us. We just…well…we just talk. I don’t know how to explain it…we seem to be on the same wavelength. I feel a real connection with her. We seem to have so much in common.’

Clare stared at him, her heart aching with hurt. She still loved Liam. And there were two innocent children sleeping next door whose lives would be devastated if he left her.

‘Liam,’ she said and waited until he looked at her. She fought hard to keep her voice calm and controlled. ‘Are you in love with this woman?’

He looked away and swallowed, the Adam’s apple at his throat bobbing like a float. ‘I don’t know. I think I might be.’

She sat in silence, the anger rising in her like sap. Yes, she had neglected him – she was the first to admit it – but instead of talking to her, instead of trying to repair things between them, he had found solace in the company of another woman. When at last she spoke, her voice was tinny with emotion. ‘So this is what you do at the first sign of trouble, Liam? Run into the arms of another woman.’

‘That isn’t fair, Clare. I told you – nothing’s happened between us.’

‘And you think the absence of a physical relationship makes it alright, Liam?’

He sighed deeply, his chest rising and falling like a bellow. ‘I didn’t say that. I didn’t set out to form a relationship with Gillian, Clare. It just happened. I’ve tried to do the right thing. I’ve tried to keep it just friends.’

‘If you want to give our marriage a chance you have to stop this relationship now. Before it goes any further.’

‘I’m not sure I can do that, Clare,’ he said and stared hard at her. ‘She’s my best friend.’

His comment ripped through her like a knife. She remembered a time when they had been soulmates, unable to bear being out of each other’s company even for a few hours. ‘I used to be your best friend,’ she said and hated the way she sounded – needy and resentful.

‘Likewise,’ said Liam, and he looked at her then with tears in his eyes. ‘But it’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Clare, since you and I felt any real connection?’

‘I’m sorry that you feel like that,’ she said, looking away and not answering his question because it was a painful truth she did not want to admit. ‘It’s hard with a young family
and you working late all the time. We’ve had so little time together, just the two of us.’

‘Other people make time. But you haven’t wanted to, have you? And the truth is, neither have I.’

She sat in silence for a few minutes, biting her bottom lip. With a soft sigh, Liam turned out his light and rolled over on his side, facing away from her.

‘Is that it?’ she said.

‘There’s nothing else to say, Clare,’ he said flatly. ‘It’s late. You’d better get some sleep. The kids will be up early.’

‘Liam?’

‘What?’

‘Are you going to leave?’ said Clare.

There was a long silence and then he said quietly, ‘No. Not unless you want me to.’ Another pause. ‘Do you?’

‘No.’

Too shocked to say any more, Clare took her pyjamas, got changed in the en-suite with the door firmly locked and, when she came out, crept into Izzy’s bedroom. She crawled under the pink ‘princess’ duvet and pulled it over her head. The pillow smelled of coconut and cheap perfume. She buried her face in it, and wept silent tears. Her marriage was as good as over.

It was little comfort to know that the relationship between Liam and Gillian wasn’t a physical one – it was much worse than that. Gillian was the one he confided in, to whom he bared his soul and shared jokes with in a way he no longer did with her. Gillian was the one he whispered to late at night on the phone. She imagined Liam unburdening himself to her, moaning about his awful home life. She was quite sure that he talked about his wife to this woman with her smart suits and her painted nails and her salon-styled hair.

She would pay rapt attention to what he said, laugh at
his jokes, make him feel important and valued in a way Clare clearly did not. Gillian was a fantasy, fulfilling Liam’s emotional needs that were not sated at home. Clare, on the other hand, represented real family life – punctuated by moments of great joy, yes, but generally messy and untidy, distracted and relentlessly exhausting. How could she hope to compete?

She had reached for the stars, thinking that she could count on Liam’s support no matter what. Believing that their love would survive anything. And she had succeeded – she had proved that people valued her work and were prepared to pay good money for it. But her achievement had come at great cost. Her marriage was on the rocks. Liam said he wasn’t going to leave, but how long would that resolve last?

She wanted him to stay but she was, suddenly, very angry. She pulled her knees up to her chest, tight with rage, her stomach cramped with fury. How could he betray her in this way? And how could she have been so stupid as not to see what was going on? The working late, the lack of interest in her, the lack of support prior to the exhibition. If they did manage to weather this storm, and it was a big if, Clare wasn’t sure she could ever forgive Liam.

The tears dried up, leaving crusty trails on her temples and wet patches on the pillow. She lay on her back and stared at the glitter ball suspended from the ceiling above Izzy’s bed until her eyes adjusted to the dark. In the absence of light bouncing off the tiny mirrored squares, the ball was a dark grey orb, like a dead planet. She wondered how Izzy felt lying in this bed at night in the home of a woman who was not her mother. Alienated? Lonely? Angry? And she wondered too if the same uncertain future awaited her own children. Clare waited for a long time, believing that Liam must’ve heard her cry, that he would come and sit on the
edge of the bed and tell her that he was sorry. That it wasn’t too late, that he wanted to save their marriage. It was a long time before Clare finally drifted off to sleep. But Liam never came.

In Clare’s kitchen, Kirsty watched her friend take an already opened bottle of white wine from the fridge and pour it quickly into one of the thin-stemmed wine glasses on the counter. Some of the yellow liquid sloshed onto the granite surface but Clare, talking all the while, appeared not to notice. The sound of children’s TV drifted in from the room next door where Josh and Rachel were watching cartoons.

Clare, who looked like her hair hadn’t been washed in days, picked up the glass and thrust it at Kirsty. ‘Here, take this.’

Kirsty, having spent the best part of the last hour listening to Clare’s revelations about her marriage, was sorely tempted. But she shook her head. She followed strict rules about daytime drinking which, except on the rarest of social occasions, was simply not on. Clare shrugged and, pausing only to gulp down some wine as if it were water on a hot summer’s day, continued babbling nineteen to the dozen.

Kirsty glanced discreetly at the clock and bit her lip. It was four thirty on a Monday afternoon – far too early to be drinking, especially when in charge of young children. And she should know. Hadn’t she been there once herself? And if she’d learned anything after Scott’s death it was that alcohol was not the answer.

‘So when did all this happen?’ said Kirsty, when Clare finally paused for breath.

‘Friday night,’ said Clare, her face twisted with bitterness. ‘After my hugely successful exhibition.’

‘I’m so sorry, Clare. I’d no idea you and Liam were going through a rough patch.’

Clare let out a little peal of nervous laughter and took a gulp of wine.

‘It’s not unusual, you know,’ Kirsty went on. ‘What he’s doing.’

Clare snorted. ‘What? Having an affair with a work colleague?’

‘Well, technically he’s not having an affair. The relationship isn’t in any way physical, is it?’

‘Not yet,’ said Clare darkly.

‘So it’s more of a…a meeting of minds. It’s like having a best friend at work. A confidante. Someone who understands the pressures you work under because they work under them too. The term for someone like her is an “office spouse”.’

Clare necked some wine and glared at Kirsty. ‘A what?’

‘An “office spouse”. I read an article about it in a Sunday supplement.’ Kirsty folded her arms across her chest and went on. ‘What you’ve got to understand, Clare, is that, in his mind, because he hasn’t actually been unfaithful to you, he probably doesn’t think he’s done anything wrong. All he’s done is talk to this woman, albeit on an emotional level. Now to you and me that sounds very much like a betrayal but men don’t operate on the same emotional level as women.’

Clare bit her lip and stared out of the window.

‘This isn’t helping, is it?’ said Kirsty and she touched Clare’s arm, dipping her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ There was a long
pause and Kirsty said, quietly, ‘So where do you go from here?’

Clare shook her head. ‘I have no idea. We hardly spoke to each other all weekend. Liam worked most of Saturday and I took the kids over to his parents on Sunday while he played golf. Thank God Izzy wasn’t here. I don’t think I could’ve handled her on top of everything else.’

‘I’m sure you can work things out,’ said Kirsty, feeling like a fraud for dispensing marriage advice. What did she know about making a marriage work? She often wondered if she and Scott would still be together if he had lived. ‘Look, I really have to go. I’m sorry. Dorothy and Harry were expecting me to pick the boys up forty-five minutes ago. They’ll be wondering where I am.’

‘Of course. I’m so sorry for keeping you back,’ said Clare in a slightly startled manner, as though waking from a daydream. ‘Thanks for coming round.’

‘I knew something was wrong as soon as I heard your voice on the phone. I just wished you’d called me earlier.’

Clare shrugged. ‘I needed a bit of time, you know, to myself.’

Kirsty forced a smile and glanced at the glass in Clare’s hand. ‘Look, are you going to be alright?’ she said, reluctant to leave her friend in this state.

‘Oh, I’ll be fine,’ said a suddenly animated Clare, waving the wine glass in the air. ‘I have my Chardonnay to keep me company!’

Kirsty cleared her throat. ‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ she said quietly and stared hard at Clare. There were black rings under her eyes.

‘What?’ asked Clare, and she held the wine glass out in front of her and looked at it, as though focusing on it properly for the first time. ‘Are you suggesting I’m drinking too much?’

‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, Clare. But alcohol doesn’t solve anything. In fact it just makes things worse. And I’m speaking from experience.’

‘Oh, you don’t need to worry about me. I know when I’ve had enough.’

‘You really shouldn’t be drinking when you’re in sole charge of the children,’ persisted Kirsty.

‘Oh, don’t fuss so. Liam’ll be home soon. He can take care of them. For a change.’

Kirsty let out a long loud sigh.

‘Honestly, Kirsty. I know what I’m doing.’

‘Well, just promise me one thing.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Promise me you won’t drive after having a drink.’

‘You know I’d never be
that
stupid.’

‘Well, that’s good to know.’ Kirsty picked up her car keys and handbag and gave Clare a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Chin up, sweetheart. I’m sure everything’s going to be alright between you and Liam.’ She added lamely, ‘It sounds like you two need to sit down and have a good long talk.’

‘I think it’s going to take more than a long talk to fix this mess,’ said Clare.

‘Well, it’s a start, Clare. And you have to start somewhere.’

‘I suppose so.’ Clare forced a smile and looked at Kirsty. ‘Life just seems to be full of disappointment, doesn’t it?’ she said bitterly. ‘Look at you. You finally meet someone you like and what does he do?’

‘He hasn’t gone yet,’ said Kirsty bravely, trying hard not to adopt Clare’s morose mood. But inside her heart ached at the idea that Chris might one day soon walk out of her life for ever.

‘I still think you should tell him how you feel, Kirsty.’

Even the idea of it made Kirsty’s heart pound and a fine
beading of sweat came out on her brow. ‘There’s no point, Clare. I’ve told you what he said before. He’s not interested in me.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘If he cared for me at all,’ said Kirsty quietly, wiping her brow with the back of her hand, ‘he wouldn’t be leaving, would he?’

Clare shrugged. ‘You won’t know unless you ask.’

‘Look, I really have to run,’ said Kirsty. ‘Bye.’

Outside in the car, Kirsty checked her mobile. There was a message from Dorothy to say that she’d set off for Kirsty’s house with the boys, she on foot, the boys on their bikes. They would be home by now. Kirsty paused, cast one last anxious glance at Clare’s house, and drove off.

Troubles never came alone. First Martin had lost his job, then Laura fell pregnant and now Clare’s marriage was in crisis. And Chris was going to find another job and she would never see him again. The prospect brought tears to her eyes. She stopped at lights, braking too late and screeched to an abrupt halt just inches from the bumper of a Ford Focus. The driver waved his fist at her and she blinked hard to hold back the tears.

She had spent the last three years building a secure future for herself and the boys, supported by loving friends who had never said a cross word to each other in all the time she’d known them. And now, suddenly, everything – or so it seemed – was thrown into chaos. Rifts had arisen between her dearest friends that she seriously doubted would ever heal.

And Chris was going to leave her. The lights changed to green. Brutally she shoved the car in gear and drove home, wondering why everything was falling apart.

‘Is everything okay?’ said Dorothy, rushing to greet Kirsty
as soon as she came through the door. She wore a pale pink jersey tracksuit (which she euphemistically referred to as a leisure suit) and bright white trainers that had never graced a running track in their life. Her face was rigid with worry, her hands clasped so tightly together the tips of her fingers were pink.

‘Didn’t you get my text?’ said Kirsty, slightly irritated by Dorothy’s over-reaction. She was only a little bit late home from work. You’d think, from Dorothy’s reaction, that she’d just returned from an expedition up Mount Everest.

‘Yes. But you didn’t say where you were or what had caused the delay.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I’m late. I got a call from a friend who needed a shoulder to cry on.’

‘Nothing serious, I hope,’ said Dorothy, her brows knotted with anxiety.

‘Yes. And no. Man trouble,’ said Kirsty vaguely, not wishing to discuss Clare’s personal life. She hung her handbag over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and kicked off her work shoes.

‘Usually is,’ said Dorothy wryly and visibly relaxed.

Kirsty followed her into the kitchen where the tiled floor was pleasantly cool under her hot feet. The boys were kicking a ball around in the garden. The ironing board was set up in front of the kitchen sink. On the table was a pile of Kirsty’s knickers including three black thongs, well past their best, which she wore under tight trousers. They had all been ironed and carefully folded.

‘I thought I might as well make myself useful while I was here,’ said Dorothy brightly, not noticing Kirsty’s discomfiture. The older woman picked up the iron, positioned the point of it over the crotch of a pair of black lace knickers and pressed with precision.

‘There’s no need to do that,’ said Kirsty and she grabbed the knickers and scrunched them into a ball in her right fist. ‘You know I never iron underwear. It’s a complete waste of time.’

‘Don’t you, love?’ said Dorothy, as though hearing this for the first time. ‘I iron everything. I think it just makes everything so much more…’ She glanced at the pile of Kirsty’s knickers on the table, folded neatly like a stack of pancakes. ‘So much more comfortable, don’t you think?’

‘No, I don’t. No-one ever sees your pants, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Oh,’ said Dorothy and she tucked her chin in and said again, resolutely, ‘Oh.’

Kirsty sighed. ‘It’s good of you to think of doing the ironing. But you really shouldn’t. There’s no need,’ she said, walking the tightrope between causing offence and making a stand in her own home. ‘Will you look at the time!’ she added, changing subject – and tone. ‘I’d better get these two something to eat. They’ll be starving.’

‘I gave them their tea at our house. I hope you don’t mind? When you texted to say you’d be delayed, Harry and I were just about to sit down at the table. I’d made a chicken pie. You know how the boys love it,’ said Dorothy, justifying herself in a slightly subservient manner. It made Kirsty ashamed. Dorothy was only doing what she had always done – helping out in any way she could. There was a time when Kirsty would’ve been thrilled to come home and find the ironing done. She had changed the goalposts, not Dorothy.

‘Sounds lovely. That’s very kind of you,’ she said, meeting Dorothy’s wounded eyes and looking quickly away. ‘Thank you very much.’ She opened the back door. ‘I’ll just let the boys know I’m home.’

‘I’ll be off then.’

‘Are you going to walk?’

‘Yes,’ said Dorothy firmly.‘The exercise’ll do me good.’And before Kirsty could say another word, Dorothy slipped past her into the garden. She kissed both boys goodbye, ruffled their hair and disappeared out the side gate without so much as a backward glance at Kirsty.

Kirsty closed the door and sat down at the table. She unfurled her fist, looked at the pants in her hand and shook her head. Her privacy had been invaded tonight. No, worse than that, it had been violated. The over-familiarity with her in-laws now felt stifling.

She could bear it no longer. She didn’t want to end up living alone, with Dorothy and Harry wandering freely in and out of her life, and home. Insidiously undermining her with their unwanted kindnesses and well-meant concern. Her job at the museum had given her a taste of a new, independent life, outside the tiny orbit of her home, and she loved it. She yearned for more.

And suddenly it was very clear to her what she did want – Chris. She should have listened to Clare. What had she to lose by telling him how she felt? Only face and the chance of happiness. If she let him walk out of her life without telling him how she felt, she would regret it for the rest of her life. And never knowing would be a whole lot worse, she told herself, than rejection. He was a decent man – if he did turn her down she was sure he would do it kindly.

Her mind was made up, she told herself. This Friday, come whatever, she would tell him how she felt. Before he found another job. Before it was too late.

The rest of the week dragged by, and all Kirsty could think about was Chris. She rehearsed what she would say over and over, until it was as familiar as a prayer, her emotions fluctuating between hope and despair, certainty and doubt. And
when Friday dawned at last, a bright, breezy May morning, Kirsty was ready, as ready as she was ever going to be. She got up early, showered, dressed and applied her make-up with care. She ferried the boys to school, came back home and waited. Chris had no fixed schedule. He could appear at any time.

When she finally heard the growl of Chris’s beaten-up Land Rover pulling into her drive mid-morning, her heart stood still. She listened as the engine died, the car door creaked open, slammed shut again, the scrape of metal tools being hauled out of the back of the trailer, the click and thud of the side gate as Chris made his way into the back garden. She got up, wiped her sweaty palms down the thighs of her jeans, touched her hair. There was, she told herself firmly, no time like the present.

Downstairs, she stepped out into the garden where Chris was bent over with a rake in his hand, removing leaves and other debris from the surface of the pond. The breeze was chilly and small white clouds skittering across the sky.

Chris looked up when she came alongside him, then returned his gaze to the surface of the pond. ‘I’m hoping those new plants I put in last month will help control the algae this year. You don’t want it taking over.’