The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye

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      ‘But this – this’ll be special,’ went on Patsy dreamily. ‘I know it’ll be expensive but I’ve been stashing a bit away here and there from the gallery’s profits. It’s going to be fantastic!’

      ‘Does Martin know?’ said Janice, thrilled by Patsy’s infectious enthusiasm.

      ‘That’s the best bit! It’s going to be a complete surprise. I’m going to book it all and then only tell him at the last minute.’

      ‘He’ll need his jabs though,’ cautioned Janice, a seasoned traveller. ‘He’ll know something’s up then.’

      ‘Okay, so I’ll keep where we’re going a secret. I’ve been looking at Botswana and September seems to be a good time to go – it’s between rainy seasons.’

      ‘We’ll have to do our London trip after then,’ observed Janice. ‘Maybe October.’

      Kirsty looked at Clare. ‘And what’s your resolution?’

      ‘I’m going to take up painting again,’ Clare said quickly, as though she had been waiting to be asked. ‘Seriously this time, no amateur stuff. That’s my resolution.’

      There was a short pause while everyone took in this unexpected news.

      ‘Jesus, you’re a dark horse, Clare McCormack,’ said Patsy, sounding surprised. ‘You never said a thing before.’

      ‘I’ve been thinking about it for a while,’ said Clare, staring at the empty glass in her hands. She sounded like she was making a confession. ‘I’ve done the mummy thing and, well, it’s about time I got back into the real world, I think. That’s why I’m thinking of painting.’

      ‘Commercially?’ said Patsy, and she sat up straight, her interest as art connoisseur and gallery-owner stimulated despite her lack of sobriety.

      ‘Don’t you think I’m good enough?’ asked Clare, too quickly, her glance bouncing between Patsy and the glass in her hand like a ping-pong ball. Then, as though it was too much of a distraction, she set the flute on a shelf behind the loo and folded her arms. She blushed, her insecurity laid bare.

      ‘Hell’s bells. You’re more than good enough,’ enthused Patsy. ‘Sure, before you had the children, your pictures sold like hot cakes at the annual art show,’ she added, referring to Clare’s striking watercolours of local scenes. Janice nodded in agreement.

      ‘Yes, but that was all very…very amateur,’ said Clare. ‘I’m thinking of trying to make a career out of it.’

      ‘And you will, Clare. Won’t she, girls?’ said Kirsty, looking round the room for support.

      Everyone nodded. ‘Just think, you could be the new Sam McLarnon,’ Janice said, referring to a highly regarded local artist who, like Clare, specialised in watercolours of the East Antrim coast.

      ‘If I was half as good as Sam, I’d be delighted,’ said Clare.

      The conversation turned to the going rate for a McLarnon watercolour and Janice tuned out. It was her turn next to make a resolution but she had no idea what to say. Clare’s clear-headed ambition served only to underline the inherent futility of her own existence. She didn’t make resolutions as a rule, past experience having taught her that what happens, happens. You just have to ride the wave of life, deal with it, cope. Just as she had always done. Fate dealt you a hand and it was foolishness, almost bordering on arrogance, to think that you could actually influence it.

      Just as she hated looking back, Janice abhorred the notion of planning ahead. She’d discovered long ago that the best way to deal with life was to live, like a child, in the moment. The making of resolutions implied that you had control over your life. And Janice knew that this was not the case.

      Still, she had more sense than to share these deterministic views with her friends. She didn’t want them to think her depressing on this of all nights, when as well as looking back, everyone wanted to look forward with hope and optimism. And most of all she didn’t want to disappoint them.

      ‘Your turn, Janice,’ said Clare, right on cue.

      ‘Well,’ said Janice, clearing her throat. ‘I’ve decided that this year I’m going to…to start a new project.’

      There was silence, the others waiting for her to go on, assuming she had some further clarification to share with them. Patsy nodded her head encouragingly.

      A loud rap on the door saved her. ‘Janice, are you in there?’ said her husband’s voice.

      ‘Yes, Keith!’ she shouted in response. The women collapsed into a spate of girlish sniggering, like they’d been caught smoking behind the bike sheds at school.

      ‘Who’s in there with you?’ said Keith, not waiting for her to answer and sounding slightly peeved. ‘You’ve been gone ages. People are wondering where you are.’

      Janice peered at the gold Rolex on her arm and said, in a stage whisper, ‘Shit! Is that the time?’ She pulled herself to her feet, hoisted her long black velvet dress to her knees and stepped gingerly out of the bath. ‘It’s just me and the girls in here, Keith,’ she shouted. ‘We’re coming.’

      And then to the other women she added in what she thought was a whisper, ‘Come on, girls. It’s gone eleven.’

      They filed sheepishly out of the bathroom into the bedroom, where Keith stood with a smile on his face, but not in his eyes. At fifty-two, he was fourteen years older than Janice but he still had the build of a rugby player – stocky legs, broad shoulders and muscled arms. He wore smart dark blue jeans with a brown belt and soft chocolate suede shoes. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His greying hair suited his tanned face – by anyone’s standards, he was a handsome man.

      ‘What were you doing in there?’ he whispered, as he took Janice proprietarily by the elbow and steered her along the landing after the others.

      ‘Not so fast, Keith,’ she protested, shaking off his hand. ‘I can’t walk in these heels.’

      ‘You can’t just go off in the middle of a party and leave me like that,’ he persisted.

      She stopped to face him at the top of the stairs. Down below in the hallway, people milled about, the sound of their chatter rising like a chorus, and the rhythmic beat of tooloud music filling the air. In heels she and Keith were on a level, nose to nose. She could see from the softness in his hazel eyes that he wasn’t really angry with her. Just a little annoyed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise we were in there so long.’

      ‘But you’re neglecting the other guests.’

      The truth was Janice didn’t really care about the other guests. She wanted to spend time with her best friends. Most of the people downstairs were business contacts of Keith’s. Though she would never admit this to her husband, she found them intimidating. They were lawyers, barristers, doctors and the like – all the well-heeled of Ballyfergus. She felt intellectually inferior to them.

      ‘Aren’t the staff doing their job?’ she said, referring to the caterers they’d hired in for the night to serve food and drinks.

      ‘Yes. But that’s СКАЧАТЬ