Best of Friends. Cathy Kelly

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СКАЧАТЬ you like the saucepans.’

      Saucepans. Lizzie remembered that birthday. Ten years ago, about. Her thirty-ninth, because Myles had bought her a clothes voucher for her fortieth, she remembered. She still had the saucepans. Heavy stainless steel with a lifetime guarantee, they were built to last. Unlike her and Myles.

      For a moment, she didn’t know which one of them she was angrier with: herself, for being so hopelessly unable to read the signs; or Myles, for daring to give her saucepans for a birthday.

      The minus side of Lizzie’s temper meant she was too wound up every night to sleep and ended up tossing and turning until she gave in, switched both the lamp and the bedroom TV on, and watched black-and-white cable movies until dawn.

      Debra was no help. She hadn’t known about Sabine but she didn’t sound too put out by the news that her father had a woman in his life.

      ‘Well, Mum, you’ve got to move on, you’ve got to forget the pain, haven’t you? That’s what I always say,’ Debra told her in the misty tones of the oracle.

      Lizzie, who’d never noticed even the faintest ability in Debra to forget pain and move on, had to bite her tongue to remind her daughter how long it had taken her to move on after the débâcle of leaving nursing college. For at least two years after she’d flunked her first year, Debra had burst into noisy tears at the first sign of a medical drama on television. Joe was the only member of the family who hadn’t rushed in to comfort her, pointing out with great practicality that if Debra had studied instead of being out partying with junior doctors for the whole of her first year, she might have got through. Naturally, this wasn’t a very popular theory with Debra.

      ‘You don’t understand,’ she’d wail, reaching for a tissue. ‘I did my best. It just got to me. You have to have a hard core to be a nurse. I’m too sensitive.’

      Debra’s much-vaunted sensitivity wasn’t evident now her mother needed it.

      ‘It’s been five years, Mum,’ she said matter-of-factly after Lizzie had sobbed her heart out while telling the story. ‘You have to move on.’

      How could her mother be so selfish, anyhow? She, Debra, was the one who needed support. She was the one who was organising a wedding, single-handedly almost, and coping with all sorts of crises. Barry’s stupid sister had finally been persuaded into the expensive bridesmaid’s dress but due to some frantic comfort eating, the dress – violet taffeta with a scooped neck edged with violet silk rosebuds – was now too tight. Sandra would need a shoehorn and Vaseline to get her into it. Debra had offered her some laxatives but Sandra had turned her snub nose up at them. Well, if she wanted to look like Miss Piggy in a marquee, that was her business. Debra vowed that the flower girls would station themselves in front of Sandra for the bridesmaids’ photos. How could her mother be making such a fuss with all this going on? Didn’t she realise that the most important day of Debra’s life was in less than four months?

      Gwen had been much more practical. ‘Come on the cruise with me and Shay,’ she’d urged again. ‘We’ll lend you the money. You might meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger. Although,’ Gwen added thoughtfully, ‘I hear the ratio of women to men is two to one on this cruise, so I might have to work hard to hold on to Shay!’

      ‘Running away isn’t the answer,’ Lizzie said dully, not even amused by the notion of any woman other than Gwen being keen on Shay. The idea of running away was actually very appealing but she was terribly broke and the leaky roof in the kitchen was getting worse. ‘I’m fine, Gwen, honestly.’

      Although Gwen could see that her sister was anything but fine, she realised that Lizzie needed to be left to lick her wounds in peace.

      In an unguarded moment, Lizzie told the truth to Clare Morgan, who couldn’t fail to notice how miserable Lizzie was at work, and who’d asked if everything was OK.

      ‘You mustn’t let that get to you,’ Clare said briskly when she’d heard. ‘It’s a shock when your ex moves on but I hope you haven’t been harbouring hopes of getting back together, Lizzie. That never works. You’ve a busy social life, though, haven’t you? You don’t need him. Get out there and have fun. You’re in your prime, Lizzie. Don’t become old before your time just because it’s easier to sink into lethargy.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Lizzie weakly, wishing she hadn’t been quite so successful in her attempts to convince Clare that she too was a divorced, free and single woman. Clare was a go-getting sort of person and would never understand that Lizzie’s life hadn’t moved on since Myles had moved out. Everything was still exactly the same except now she cooked for one.

      The phone in the surgery rang and Clare put her hand on it but didn’t pick up the receiver. ‘Lizzie, life’s too short to waste it thinking about what might have been. Look at all the people who come through this surgery who aren’t going to make it, like poor Maurice Pender. Things don’t look good for him and he’d do anything to have life stretching ahead of him.’ She picked up the phone.

      ‘I know,’ said Lizzie as she left Clare alone to talk to her patient, but she was only saying that she understood the doctor’s point. She felt sorry for poor Mr and Mrs Pender but even that didn’t dull her own misery.

      At home that evening, Lizzie sat down in front of the soaps with chicken and pasta on a tray on her lap. Somehow, she couldn’t concentrate on the television. Clare Morgan’s words kept exploding into her consciousness like a nagging headache that wouldn’t go away.

       Don’t become old before your time just because it’s easier to sink into lethargy.

      Lethargy was just what Lizzie was in the mood for. She felt too down to want to make any decisions, but perhaps it was time for decisions. A new life or the comfortable but lonely old one? It was like being a heroine at a crossroads in a weird fairy story. In one direction lay middle age with panty girdles, beige cardigans and big plaid skirts like the ones her granny used to wear. In the other lay a new life with men like Myles, the ones who’d been trapped in unhappy marriages and were only waiting for a quick sail around the harbour on a 24-footer before leaping into bed with someone new.

      But in fairy stories, there was always a sign about which road to take. Cute elves would appear singing mystically and pointing their elvish fingers, or the only rabbit in the company would twitch its whiskers and refuse to go in the direction of the big dark tower with the flames pouring out of the top. In real life, the choice was murkier. And there were no signposts.

      How did you know which road to take?

      And if she took the one without the granny underpinnings, what hope did she have of attracting anything in trousers? Lizzie put her tray down and stared at herself critically in the big mirror over the fireplace. She’d never been able to do anything with her shaggy hair. Her face wasn’t actually that lined, mainly because of the oily, olive skin that had tortured her with spots when she was a teenager. She liked her merry brown eyes, but hated the rosy cheeks that always made her look enthusiastic instead of pale and interesting.

      And her boobs, once one of her best attributes, were no longer what could be described as perky. To cheer herself up, she thought of the joke of the ninety-nine-year-old woman who wanted to shoot herself in the heart, was told it was to the right of her left nipple and ended in hospital with a gunshot wound to her left knee. The same could be said for this forty-nine-year-old, Lizzie thought ruefully.

      She sat back down and flicked through the channels until she came to a taut medical drama she liked. Lots of blood, trauma and pain. Other people’s pain. Excitement was much easier to handle, СКАЧАТЬ