The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye

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       Chapter Four

      By the time she finally made it to No.11, Clare was half an hour late. No.11 was a small bistro housed in the front of a former hotel on Quality Street. The rest of the hotel had long since been turned into apartments. The original sash windows had been replaced by concertina floor-to-ceiling ones that were pulled back in the summer months and tables placed on the sunlit pavement outside, continental style.

      Tonight, though, the windows were firmly shut against the bitter January night. The room was warmly decorated in stylish shades of brown and strategically placed lamps cast pools of warm yellow light on the artfully worn wooden floor. Clare headed over to the table by the window occupied by Janice, Kirsty and Patsy. They were all cosily dressed in trousers, warm jumpers and boots, in marked contrast to their party-wear of a few weeks ago.

      ‘Come and sit down, Clare,’ said Patsy, patting the seat of the remaining unoccupied brown-leather chair. ‘We wondered where you’d got to.’

      Clare greeted everyone with a kiss, sat down and apologised for being late.

      Janice, who was, as always, immaculately dressed in a pink cashmere v-neck with grey check trousers, said, ‘What’re you drinking?’

      ‘White, please.’

      ‘I’m having soda water and lime,’ said Patsy rather proudly, raising her glass up for inspection. ‘I’m on a detox.’

      Janice tutted and said, ‘Yeah, we’ll see how long that lasts. Last year you managed five whole days.’

      ‘Cheeky cow!’ exclaimed Patsy, and lifted her nose in the air in mock indignation.

      The others laughed and Clare said, ‘Well, I could certainly do with a glass of wine. Especially after the day I’ve had.’

      ‘Sounds ominous,’ said Janice and she floated off to the small bar at the far end of the room. The only member of staff on duty was Danny – all five foot seven inches of him. With his short, spiky blond hair and cherubic face he looked like a boy trying to be a man, even though he was well into his twenties.

      ‘Well,’ said Janice once she had returned from the bar, set two very large glasses of white wine in front of herself and Clare, and settled down in the chair opposite. ‘Tell us all about it, darling.’

      ‘Just a minute,’ said Clare, took a long slug of wine and immediately felt herself relax. She set the glass on a coaster. ‘It all started at teatime,’ she began, and the women listened attentively as she related the day’s events.

      ‘You poor thing,’ said Kirsty when Clare had finished. She put her hand on Clare’s knee and left it there – an act of solidarity. Kirsty’s propensity to touch still caught Clare off-guard sometimes. Like now. She sat there feeling slightly uncomfortable and sorry for herself, fighting back tears, feeling both foolish and annoyed for letting Zoe wind her up so much.

      ‘That Zoe Campbell,’ said Janice, ‘is a right cow. You shouldn’t have to put up with her.’

      ‘I don’t have any choice,’ said Clare miserably. ‘Because of Izzy. Sometimes she drives me up the wall but she is only a kid after all. I don’t really blame her.’

      ‘No, I blame Zoe,’ said Patsy firmly, folding her arms across her motherly bosom. ‘She’s poisoned Izzy’s mind against you. And I bet the wee thing’s too scared to go against that witch of a mother.’

      ‘Mmm,’ said Clare, thinking that her friends had a point. Zoe had forced Izzy to take sides. ‘It’s just so disappointing,’ she went on. ‘I so wanted Izzy and I to have a good relationship – for my own sake as much as Liam’s. I didn’t realise how hard it would be to make this family work.’

      ‘It’s not your fault, Clare,’ said Kirsty in her thoughtful, measured way. ‘Stepfamilies are never plain sailing. You just have to accept that you can’t make it perfect.’

      Perceptively, Kirsty had pinpointed the primary cause of Clare’s grief – her desire to have the perfect family. She’d come to Ballyfergus to escape her hometown of Omagh where she’d been raised, an only child, by parents who fought all the time, mainly over money. Clare had not forgiven them for her lonely, miserable childhood and, even now, she rarely saw them or spoke to them on the phone. Clare felt the tears threaten to sting again. For, try as she might, she could not ‘fix’ Zoe, or Izzy, and she found that failure hard to accept.

      ‘We’ve been married five and a half years now. I’ve known Izzy since she was seven and, if anything, things between us are worse than ever.’ She plucked at a loose thread on her black wool slacks.

      ‘She’s at a difficult age, Clare,’ said Patsy, nodding her head vigorously. ‘All twelve-year-old girls are a nightmare. It will get better. Honestly.’ Patsy was an authority on the subject, having raised two daughters of her own, but Clare remained unconvinced. She hid her scepticism by putting the glass to her lips and taking another long, welcome drink of wine.

      She believed that Izzy had resented her from the day they met and would never forgive her for marrying Liam. She suspected Izzy still harboured dreams of her parents getting back together. Zoe was still single and, from what Clare could gather, hadn’t had a serious relationship since splitting up with Liam. Perhaps if she met someone who made her happy, it would assuage some of her anger towards Clare – and Liam…

      ‘At the end of the day, Clare,’ said Janice, holding out her upturned hand as if offering Clare the gift of her wisdom, ‘it’s Zoe who has the problem, not you.’

      ‘If it was just Zoe, I could cope with that,’ said Clare. She realised she was picking at the hangnail on her left index finger. She squeezed her hands together in an effort to stop. ‘I don’t have to see her. But Izzy spends a lot of time at our house.’

      ‘Have you tried talking to Liam, sweetheart?’ asked Patsy. She leant forwards, her hands clasped together between her knees, unconsciously pushing her breasts together. The low cowl neck of her grey mohair jumper revealed a handsome cleavage.

      Clare put a hand on her own chest and gave a hollow laugh. ‘He thinks I’m being paranoid. When she’s around Liam, Izzy’s perfectly pleasant. But when she’s with me she’s quite different. Rude and uncooperative. Like tonight.’

      ‘And what does Liam have to say about all this?’ said Kirsty. ‘She’s his daughter, after all.’

      Clare shrugged. ‘I don’t think he really understands. When I report the things Izzy’s said, or done, he argues that she’s just being a normal teenager. I don’t know. Maybe he’s right,’ she said and Patsy nodded.

      ‘It’s just a stage. It’ll pass,’ she agreed confidently. ‘You’ll see.’

      There was a long pause and then Kirsty brought a welcome change of subject. ‘What about your plan to get back to painting, Clare? How’s it going?’

      Clare СКАЧАТЬ