by Cathy Kelly
The two fashion mavens examined Holly critically.
‘A teeny bit more lip gloss,’ said Kenny. ‘Otherwise, it’s perfect.’
Joan opened the front door and they trooped down the stairs. Holly fiddled with her dress, hoisting it up so that it covered her boobs a bit more.
‘Caroline will die when she sees you,’ crowed Joan happily.
At that, Holly stopped. She didn’t want Caroline to die at the sight of her in full battle dress. Because that’s what it would look like; the desperate, embittered woman who’d lost and who was giving it everything she’d got one last time. Caroline knew damn well that Holly liked Tom, even if he seemed oblivious to it. And Holly would compound matters by making a fool of herself in this dress; a dress that screeched ‘Look what you’re missing!’ She might as well paint a banner with that legend on it.
She didn’t want that air of desperation to be Tom’s last vision of her. She wanted to be cool and calm, and as happy for the engaged couple as she could: it was bad karma to be anything else. And after tonight, she’d never see them again. Tom and Caroline were moving out into a bigger flat. Holly knew she’d be invited to the wedding but she wouldn’t go. Tonight was bad enough. Tonight, she would be graceful and hopefully nobody would notice that she was being graceful in defeat.
‘I’ve forgotten to turn the…er…television off,’ she improvised and dashed upstairs. ‘Keep walking, I’ll be with you in a moment.’
In her flat, Holly ripped off the dress and threw it on the bed. She pulled a sleekly-fitting ebony trouser suit out of the wardrobe along with a white wrap shirt. Dressing quickly, she swapped the original strappy sandals for chic black mules and changed her sparkly evening bag for a simple leather one. The woman in the mirror looked classy and businesslike, and the outfit looked enough like she’d rushed home from work without time to change. It didn’t say she’d tried too hard.
‘What the hell…?’ said Joan when Holly joined them outside the gate, where they were waving for a taxi.
‘Leave her alone,’ chided Kenny. ‘Holly knows what she’s doing.’
At the hotel, a big sign in the lobby announced that the Jacob anniversary party was in the Sackville Room, the O’Connor wedding reception was in the Hill of Tara Room, and the Barry/Davis engagement party was in the Cuchulainn Room.
‘It’s all a bit historical for a hotel that’s only ten years old,’ remarked Kenny. All three names were important ones in Irish history and mythology.
‘I suppose tourists love getting in touch with the old Ireland,’ said Joan. A thought struck her: ‘God, do you suppose I’ll have to learn all sorts of Irish history when I go to New York? When my aunt came home from Philadelphia years ago, she went out of her mind that I didn’t know any old Irish songs or any of that stuff. She thought I’d be able to speak Irish too and you know all I can say in Irish is “Can I have permission to leave class to go to the loo, Miss?’”
‘Stop worrying,’ laughed Kenny. ‘Nobody’s going to expect you to start spouting guff about leprechaun legends. Anyway, you’ll probably get all homesick when you’re there and start buying Irish folk music and getting maudlin on Paddy’s Day, sobbing about the Auld Sod.’
‘Will not. I’m a club music girl and the only reason I like Paddy’s Day is because it’s a bank holiday.’
‘But you must know some Irish history,’ Kenny went on.
‘I wasn’t good at history, so what?’ said Joan crossly. ‘We weren’t all the teacher’s pet at school.’
‘Are you two going to argue all night or are we actually going into this party?’ demanded Holly.
‘Right, I’ll go first,’ said Joan. ‘You pair come after me, talking as if you’re having the most fabulous conversation on the planet and haven’t noticed you’re here at all yet.’
‘Will we talk about Irish history?’ said Kenny innocently, and Holly burst out laughing. Thus, the first impression that the other guests had of the threesome was of beautifully dressed, elegant people who were having a marvellous time, thanks to their own scintillating company.
‘That wasn’t too hard, was it?’ murmured Joan, nudging the small group in the direction of the bar.
‘Should we go and say hello to Tom and Caroline first?’ asked Holly anxiously. She could have quite happily done without seeing either of the blissfully-happy affianced couple but she knew it would have to happen.
‘No, they can come to us,’ Joan said and began ordering drinks.
Holly looked around surreptitiously.
The room, decorated in expensive ivy wallpaper for the mystic Ireland effect, was big enough for around two hundred people, and had a stage at one end. A lurid pink ‘Congratulations Tom and Caroline’ banner hung above the stage. Scores of pink, heart-shaped balloons were dotted around, clashing wildly with the riotous wallpaper.
‘Can you see any of my guys?’ said Kenny, craning his neck.
‘No, they’re probably all in the bathroom making frantic calls on their mobiles to find a cooler party to go to,’ Joan said.
‘They’re doing this for me,’ Kenny pointed out, ‘and they won’t leave until they’ve made dear Caroline see that she’s making a huge mistake by settling down when there are so many handsome men in the world who fancy her rotten.’
‘I wouldn’t bank on it,’ Joan said, eyes widening.
Holly and Kenny followed her gaze to where a crowd of people had parted, revealing a petite blonde woman in a spray-on red dress. It was Caroline, smiling smugly like a cat who’d just consumed a pint of double cream. Her dress was not unlike Holly’s discarded one as it revealed lots of flesh and had a devastatingly deep plunge neckline, combined with a more subtle gash up one thigh. But while Holly had the curves to carry off such a siren’s outfit, Caroline did not. Her tiny pert breasts and boyish hips, perfect for her trademark slip dresses, were lost in the dress.
‘I can’t believe she’s wearing that,’ said Joan pityingly. ‘That is so not her style.’
Holly sent up a grateful prayer that she’d changed out of her own little red number. Beside each other, she and Caroline would have looked like Little and Large. Or worse: the lo-cal and full-fat versions.
It was obvious that Caroline didn’t have any doubts about her outfit and she sailed triumphantly over to the trio.
‘I’m sooo pleased you’re here!!’ she squealed, hands flapping excitedly. ‘Isn’t this exciting! Do you like my dress?’ she added to Joan, clearly still keen to butter the designer up over the as yet unresolved matter of her wedding dress. ‘It’s Versace.’
‘Last season and a copy,’ murmured Kenny sotto voce into Holly’s ear.
She gave him a tiny slap on the wrist. ‘Don’t be mean.’
‘What do you think of my wonderful balloons?’ gushed Caroline. ‘I should have had red to go with my dress, but I prefer pink. It’s more womantic,’ she added, lisping prettily.
Holly hoped that Joan wouldn’t start to make sick noises at Caroline’s baby talk. Joan’s bullshit-ometer was very sensitive.
‘Where’s Tom?’ Holly asked.
‘Over there somewhere,’ Caroline said, distracted as a gaggle of newly arrived women in party sequins waved gaily at her.
‘Talk to you later!’ shrieked Caroline. She tottered off in her high heels to greet the newcomers, screaming, ‘I’m sooo pleased you’re all here!’
Behind the new arrivals stood three of the most handsome men Holly had ever seen in her life. All casually clad in worn jeans with their hair fashionably tousled, they had the careless elegance of people so beautiful that what they wore didn’t matter. One bore more than a slight resemblance to Brad Pitt, reminding Holly of her brother-in-law. Finn had that same effortless way of walking, a sexy stroll that said he had all the time in the world. They spotted Kenny and drifted sexily over. In contrast to their languid beauty, close up they all seemed excitable and almost boyish in their enthusiasm. They hugged Kenny and shook hands with the girls.
�
�Lovely to meet you.’
‘Oh, you’re Joan and Holly!’
‘We’ve heard all about you.’
Soon, the six of them were laughing and giggling like they’d all known each other for years. Kenny pointed out the betrothed couple to the boys.
‘He’s divine,’ sighed Brad Pitt, whose real name was Napier.
Holly giggled into her orange juice. Kenny winked at her.
‘Nape’s a diesel,’ Kenny whispered.
Holly looked bewildered.
‘He runs on different fuel.’
She got it.
When Tom walked over to say hello to them, with Caroline holding his hand firmly, it looked as if Kenny’s cunning plan was going to backfire. The two straight models ignored Caroline, while Napier smouldered away at Tom.
‘Caroline, you must meet Napier, Denzil and Kurt,’ said Kenny firmly, shoving Napier away from Tom and towards Caroline.
‘Hello, boys,’ simpered Caroline. Imagine, real models at her party. Moving to Dublin was going to work out after all.
Tom slipped his hand from hers and moved closer to Holly.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Tom. ‘You look nice.’
Holly looked down at her businesslike suit. ‘It’s a bit formal for tonight,’ she said apologetically. ‘Sorry.’
‘No, it’s lovely. You always look…’ Tom stopped mid-sentence, as if realising it was inappropriate to talk to her like that. ‘lovely,’ he said finally, ‘you always look lovely.’
‘Right back at you,’ she said. He was in the cashmere sweater she, Kenny and Joan had bought him for that fateful birthday; the night when Caroline had appeared on the scene, dashing hopes Holly hadn’t even known she’d had. She thought of the expensive book on that famous architect she’d bought as a private present for Tom. It was still under her bed, still tied up with ribbon, like a parcel of hopes and dreams.
‘This is the sweater you gave me,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Holly. What was the point of feigning ignorance. She remembered everything Tom wore and what he’d said to her when he wore it.
‘Kenny tells me you’ve got a new flat; one of those posh ones in Glasnevin,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Caroline’s madly keen to have a housewarming before we get the wooden floor down.’
‘You’re turning into a party animal,’ she teased gently. ‘Engagement parties, house-warmings, the wedding…So, when are you moving out of Windmill Terrace?
‘Next week.’
‘That soon?’ She looked down into her glass. Just another week, then, and Tom would be out of her life for good. It was better that way.
‘I hope we can all keep in touch,’ he said, ‘you, Kenny, Joan, me. The Purple Mosquito gang.’
It was all too much for Holly. She couldn’t bear to be just another name on Tom and Caroline’s Rolodex, a memory of the days in Windmill Terrace. She could picture Caroline introducing her: ‘This is Holly who used to live in the cutest flat below Tom’s. Yes, remember when he moved to Dublin first and lived in this crummy house, before I moved too. Well, Holly was Tom’s neighbour, one of a trio of marvellous mad people. Joan Atwood, the designer, was one of them actually.’ Then Caroline would whisper that Holly used to have a crush on Tom. ‘Sweet girl, sobbed at our wedding, you know. Bless.’
‘Tom, I’m sorry, I have to go. Have a lovely party.’ Holly thrust her glass into his hand and, without taking in the astonished look on his face, rushed out of the room into the lobby. She didn’t wait to see if either Kenny or Joan had noticed her abrupt flight. They’d figure out roughly what had happened. Out the hotel door and down the street she ran, dodging pedestrians; anything to get away from Tom.
In her haste to get away, she didn’t look back. If she had, she’d have seen Tom fighting past party guests as he tried to follow her. But when Tom made it to the street, Holly was long gone.
When she was far enough away, she slowed down to a gentle walk. She never wanted to see him again. It hurt too much. There was no point agonising over ‘if only’. If only she’d told him how she felt in the early days; if only he’d had the chance to say that he liked her as a friend and nothing more, then perhaps she’d have got over him. But the endless hoping that he’d recognise her love, recognise that she, not Caroline, was the right woman for him, that had been torture. Holly speeded up. She’d made the decision to walk out of his life. He wasn’t walking out of hers, she was walking out of his. She was powerful and strong. She was going to get over Tom Barry.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Clarisse and Wendy Cavaletto sat in the hotel restaurant and perused the lunch menu. Wendy wasn’t hungry and would have preferred a sandwich somewhere local but Clarisse was very keen on being seen in all the right places, and insisted that the Michelin-starred restaurant in the Manon Hotel was just such a place.
‘Wendy, you can’t hide away. You’ve got to get out and meet people,’ insisted Clarisse on the phone.
Wendy wasn’t sure how meeting her ex-sister-in-law for lunch constituted meeting ‘people’ but decided it was part of some grand plan of Clarisse’s to get her name in the gossip columns. Clarisse had a not-very-secret desire to be one of the country’s society people and had made frantic, albeit so far unsuccessful, efforts during the summer racing season to win ‘best dressed lady’ prizes at Leopardstown, Fairyhouse and the Galway races.
‘I haven’t been hiding away,’ Wendy had pointed out. ‘I’ve joined the amateur dramatic group and the gym.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ Clarisse said impatiently. ‘You need to be seen at the right places.’
Now that they were there, sitting in a balcony area where they were highly visible, Wendy regretted not holding out for that quiet sandwich. The Manon Hotel was full of what Clarisse assured her were movers and shakers, and Wendy didn’t fancy the prospect of breaking down in tears in front of such people. This was a possibility because Clarisse had news of Her, Nick’s new woman, and Wendy found herself ludicrously emotional when it came to her ex-husband. After several last-minute cancellations over the past few months, Clarisse had finally entertained Nick and Stella to dinner and was now bristling with information.
‘A glass of champagne, I think,’ said Clarisse when the waitress came to take their order.
‘Not for me,’ said Wendy. ‘I’ve got the car.’
‘Nonsense,’ her sister-in-law retorted. ‘One glass won’t kill you. We’ll hit the shops afterwards so it’ll be hours before you’re driving. Isn’t this fun?’
‘Yes,’ said Wendy, faking a smile. Clarisse was doing her best, but she was a poor substitute for Belinda, Wendy’s best friend in London. Belinda was the sort of person who’d know exactly how to buoy Wendy up. Having lunch in a pretentious, expensive hotel would not have been on the agenda. Sometimes, Wendy found herself wishing that she hadn’t moved away from London.
Her support system was there, in a city she’d spent years trying to get out of. Now that she had, she almost regretted it. Ireland wasn’t like she’d expected. It had selfishly moved on. While she’d kept the old Ireland alive in her heart, it had changed into this new modern European country she didn’t recognise. After twenty years away, she knew nobody and felt she didn’t fit in.
Her sister lived in the States and her parents were dead. Her circle of old friends had all moved on and she was left with Clarisse.
It was tough relying on someone like her sister-in-law for support. Clarisse had a way of telling you things with her own idiosyncratic twist, a sort of spin. She didn’t just give you the facts, she gave her interpretation of them too, which was why Wendy wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to hear about Nick’s new girlfriend from her.
They both managed a bit of idle chat about nothing until they had their champagne. Thus fortified, Clarisse began.
‘Well, I wasn’t that impressed, I can tell you. She obviously doesn’t spend much money on clothes. She had this linen skirt on and it was at least five years old. I h
ad one like it but I’ve long since thrown it out. And her hair, well. What a disaster. She has one of those short, unforgiving haircuts.’ Clarissse shuddered.
Wendy felt slightly cheered up by this, cheered up enough to ask: ‘Is she good-looking?’
‘Not bad, if you like that sort of thing. Dark haired and not much make-up. Blonde would suit her better.’ Clarisse touched her own expensively streaked mane. Both she and Wendy were blonde. Clarisse couldn’t understand why everybody wasn’t blonde. Bleach hid the grey and was so much more flattering, she felt. ‘And I think she looks her age.’
Wendy desperately wanted to know what that age was. She’d managed not to ask Nick during that shaming phone call where she’d screamed at him and told him he was a bastard for finding someone new so quickly and she hoped he’d drop dead.
Clarisse didn’t disappoint. ‘She’s younger than him, late thirties I’d say, although she could do more with herself. I can’t see her as the sort who spends a moment in the beautician’s.’
Wendy digested this, not sure if she was happy or sad that her ex-husband was with a woman who could do more with herself. It shouldn’t matter what sort of a woman he went out with, but somehow, it did. It was as if his new choice of mate was a direct reflection on Wendy herself. A younger and ambitious girlfriend implied that Wendy lacked those very attributes. Which was nearly as humiliating as the speed with which Nick had apparently got over the divorce and found Her.
‘What did Howard think?’ asked Wendy. She’d always been fond of Nick’s brother, although they didn’t have much in common. He was a tax inspector, a subject Wendy found terminally boring.
‘Well, you know Howard.’ Clarisse’s expression signified that she knew Howard too well and, in fact, was fed up with knowing him. ‘He likes the oddest people. The three of them were talking all night, gabbling away about the planning tribunals and offshore accounts.’
Their salads arrived.
‘I’ll tell you one thing though,’ said Clarisse, spearing a sliver of chicken, ‘I have a feeling about her. I told Howard when they were gone: “Mark my words,” I said, “they’re going out more than three months.’”