by Cathy Kelly
‘But why now?’ said Ethan. ‘Why did you never go on these sorts of holidays years ago? You could have taken the time off.’
Christie and James exchanged another look, a private look.
‘This is time for us now,’ she said. ‘You’re all settled, you’ve got your own lives, your own families, it’s time for us to be selfish.’
‘Yeah, but what if we need you, with the baby and everything?’ Shane said, sounding briefly like a child and not like an adult with a wife and a first child on the way.
‘The baby will be fine,’ Christie said, and she knew he would be.
She’d seen a healthy little boy in the future, to be followed, hopefully, by two more. She and James had given Shane and Janet some money for their new arrival and to help them buy a house.
‘We promise we’ll do double babysitting duties when we get back,’ she added. ‘You can always email us, we have a hotmail account.’
‘I don’t know,’ joked Ethan, ‘parents these days: they’re crazy and want to travel the world and don’t care about anyone else.’
The whole family laughed at this.
‘You’re right,’ James said. ‘It’s like we’re in our second childhoods.’
At number 48, Una Maguire was back on her feet and had taken up yoga.
‘Flexibility is the key to taking care of yourself,’ she told everyone who’d listen. ‘If I’d done yoga years ago, who knows, I mightn’t have broken my leg after all. Your father and I have a bet on about the lotus position. I said I’ll be in it by Christmas and he says never. I’m going to win that tenner from you, Dennis.’
Maggie laughed at her mother. It was brilliant to see her on such good form. Una Maguire was one of life’s strong people. No matter what life threw at her, she threw it right back with her own peculiar topspin. Maggie had stopped obsessing about how she’d turned out so different from her mother and had begun to appreciate her differences.
She was a bit more like her dad really. Quiet and shy, but with enough of her mother’s strength and fire, if required. The developers involved in trying to destroy the Summer Street pavilion had certainly learned that to their cost.
The holiday season had meant that both the plan to knock down the pavilion and the campaign to save it were at a standstill. But the fact that no bulldozer had entered the park in the dead of night and ripped the pavilion to pieces was down to Maggie’s work. She’d given so many interviews with newspapers and radio stations about the pavilion that she could recite her points in her sleep. And it seemed newspapers liked using her picture too.
‘The pavilion may be crumbling and need a fortune to restore it, but it’s a beautiful building,’ Ivan said, looking at the picture everyone liked best, the full-colour one of Maggie and her mum sitting on the pavilion steps: two radiant redheads, smiling at the cameras with the Save Our Pavilion posters in the background. ‘But having two beautiful women in the picture certainly helps,’ Ivan went on.
‘That’s the type of thing Shona would say,’ Maggie teased him, but she didn’t contradict him either.
He said she was beautiful ten times a day, and he meant it. What was more, Maggie was beginning to appreciate her own worth. When there was nobody else around, she’d examined her photo in the paper, trying to be objective about her own face, and realised that people hadn’t been lying to her when they said she was beautiful.
She didn’t think she would ever totally see it herself. There’d always be that core of self-doubting somewhere, the doubt that made Maggie so lovable and vulnerable. But she was growing stronger and more confident every day. She had become slightly more adventurous when it came to clothes and had just purchased several new bikinis for the holiday she and Ivan were going on in November. They planned to tour Croatia and then spend one week in Dubrovnik mixing culture and the seaside all in one glorious package.
Going on holiday with Ivan wasn’t the only momentous event in Maggie’s life. He’d asked her to move in with him. Actually, he’d asked her to marry him, but she’d said it was too soon to think of all that.
‘It’s a wonderful idea and I’m honoured you’ve asked me,’ she said, sitting on his lap, her arms around his neck. ‘I just don’t want to rush into anything, Ivan.’
‘It wouldn’t be rushing,’ he said. ‘But OK, I understand. I won’t push you.’
‘Thank you for that,’ she said. ‘You know I’m crazy about you.’
‘How crazy?’ he asked.
‘Oh, this crazy,’ she said, leaning forward and hungrily catching his mouth with hers.
At number 18, Faye Reid had decided that there was no point letting her savings sit miserably in the bank for ever and had employed a landscape gardener to transform her back garden.
‘I love sitting in yours so much,’ she’d said to Christie. ‘It’s so peaceful and lovely with the pergola and the scent of all those roses, and I thought why am I killing myself trying to make my little square of grass look attractive? I don’t know anything about plants and, without professional help, it’ll always be a disaster of a bit of lawn, loads of weeds and a few hardy shrubs that can survive my hopeless horticultural skills.’
‘Brilliant idea,’ Christie said. ‘You need a little haven.’
With Christie’s help, Faye had come up with the template for her own garden and although the flowers and plants would need a good year to settle in properly, it was a different place already. Now, down the bottom of the garden, she had a new shed which would take her gardening equipment.
‘You have to actually do some gardening now,’ Christie teased. ‘But I promise to help.’
In front of the shed was a bed filled with large rambling plants that screened the shed, then a path that curved in an S shape around the tiny lawn, a lawn that was now sinuously rounded at the edges with beds of flowers cut into it. There were plants clustered amid rocks, beautiful grasses lazing in a raised bed filled with gravel and a cluster of pots with herbs brimming out over the top. Closer to the house was a trellised wall and a pergola, with honeysuckle and fledgling roses planted at the base waiting to spread. Finally, there was a small terracotta paved terrace graced by the new garden furniture she’d bought.
‘This is a perfect place to relax,’ Christie said when she saw the finished product. She sat down with a glass of wine to admire the handiwork.
‘Who needs to go on holiday to get the sun?’ added Maggie, sitting back on a lounger with her eyes closed and a glass of wine in one hand.
The evening sun filled the terraced corner.
‘I love it,’ said Faye proudly. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t do it years ago, but I was always saving money for Amber.’
She talked about Amber all the time now with Maggie and Christie. At first she’d found it hard to mention her daughter’s name to others in case she cried. Amber hadn’t come home. And although the lines of communication were firmly open and Amber—who had her own US cell phone now—rang frequently but only ever briefly, there was always a sense of sadness and failure in Faye’s heart. But she had to move on. Sitting still waiting for Amber was not how she was going to live her life.
It wasn’t fair to herself and it wasn’t fair to Amber, because one day if, God willing, Amber did come home, she wouldn’t want it to be to a mother who sat anxiously watching her every move, balancing her own hopes on Amber’s slender shoulders, expecting Amber to be everything to her. That was wrong. The realisation that this was what she’d done before had shocked her.
She was determined to be different. And she’d phoned Grace’s makeover friend, Ellen, for that reason. She knew that Ellen didn’t want to transform her with red lipstick, blonde streaks and high heels—she hoped she’d gain some of Ellen’s wisdom about life and about not being invisible any more. It was time to trade in the Faye Reid who’d hidden herself for eighteen years.
‘Amber would love this,’ Faye said now to Christie and Maggie, looking out over the beautiful garden. ‘She always used to wonder why I
wouldn’t spend money on things and I told her we were broke, that work didn’t pay me that much and, in fact, I was just saving it for her future. Crazy really, obsessively saving so that she’d have everything and I didn’t see that wasn’t what she wanted.’
Christie reached over and held Faye’s hand gently.
‘She’ll come home one day, Faye: I’m sure of it.’
‘I hope so,’ Faye said sadly. ‘I hope so.’
A mile away, Amber sat in a small traffic jam and half listened to the taxi driver telling her all the news since she’d been away. He was very informative and clearly listened to talk radio at length, because once she’d mentioned that she’d been away from Ireland for over three months, he went into great detail to fill her in on the goings-on in the corridors of power.
‘That’s terrible,’ Amber muttered at intervals, glad of his conversation because at least then she didn’t need to think about reaching Summer Street and what sort of reception she’d get.
It was all she could think of since she’d decided to come home. Would her mother hug her the way she’d hugged her that day in the hotel in LA? Or would she feel that Amber had pushed her too far by staying away so long, and that by so doing, had sliced a division between them that could never be healed?
If that was the case, she’d say she had come home because American immigration was very efficient and she could easily be deported. But if her mum hugged her, then Amber would admit the truth: she missed her mother more than she could say.
It was all very well being wild and carefree when you had one special person to share that dream with. But when that person turned out to be nothing like you’d imagined, then the dream turned sour pretty quickly. She was working illegally in the US, relying on her tips, while the so-called love of her life was with another woman.
Amber thought back to the day she and Saul had sat in the health food café and talked about her career as an artist.
She remembered that feeling of freedom she’d experienced when she’d realised that the only thing stopping her going home was herself.
She could go home if she wanted to.
‘If you want to go back to Ireland, that’s great,’ Saul said. ‘But keep in touch, right? I still want to invest in your talent.’
He’d been about to leave and had casually said that he thought her family must be proud of her.
After spending so long pretending that everything was fine, all the pent-up misery had come tumbling out and Amber had burst into tears.
‘My mum and my gran are my family and they were proud of me, and I threw it back in their faces,’ she sobbed. ‘I didn’t understand how much Mum loved me, I just hated the fact that she expected so much of me.’
‘That’s parents for you,’ Saul pointed out. He sat back down at the table and gazed at her seriously. ‘Only they don’t stop being proud of you.’
‘You think so?’ Amber asked. The tears kept pouring out. She’d suppressed her sadness for so long. She couldn’t be miserable or tearful at work: the glossy LA women came to the salon for pampering, not to stare at the red eyes of a young receptionist who had life problems. Glossy LA women didn’t do problems.
‘Hey, Amber, get real here. It could have all turned really bad for you,’ Saul said. ‘Your ex is no prince, that’s a fact, and this isn’t a city where you want to be broke and alone. But it didn’t turn out bad because you’re a strong woman, and clever enough to walk away at the right time. You could have hung on with Karl and you didn’t. I admire that.’
Amber nodded and dried her eyes with her sleeve.
‘I don’t know your mom, but I’d say she taught you well and I’d also say she’d be proud of you if she knew.’
Amber thought about it all. ‘You’re right,’ she said, suddenly pleased with herself. ‘I am a strong woman. And my mum did teach me well. I’m just like her, in fact.’
The taxi driver dropped Amber and her bags outside number 18 Summer Street.
‘Thanks,’ he said, when she paid him and gave him a decent tip.
At least she had money now, Amber reflected. She hadn’t spent much of her earnings and she had refilled the envelope of cash her mother had given her. Mum was getting that back. The rest could go towards household expenses. If she was going to repeat her final year in school to do her exams, then she was going to be a paying member of the household.
She took a minute to fluff up her hair—even more tawny blonde now thanks to free mesh highlights at work—fix the collar on her sleeveless shirt, and adjust the tiger’s-eye pendant around her neck. Her hand stilled around it, caressing the smooth stone. How many times had she touched this and thought of her mother? How many times had it felt like a talisman of her past life?
And now it was going to be part of her future, she decided, shaking back her mane of hair.
Dragging her bags to the front door she stood listening. There were sounds of music and laughter coming from around the back of the house. As the end of the terrace, number 18 had a tiny side passage, and Amber left her bags and walked curiously along it, pushing open the gate at the end and walking into a garden she definitely didn’t recognise.
It was so pretty, full of plants and curves and…there was a terrace with sun loungers and sitting on them were her mum, Mrs Devlin and a beautiful red-haired woman that Amber thought might be Mrs Maguire’s daughter.
Nobody noticed her approach. They were too busy talking and laughing, and the music—Mum’s adored Billie Holiday—was playing loudly. Mum’s hair was different too—short and flicky, lovely. She looked so happy, so content.
Amber felt tears well up. Everything was different. What if her mum didn’t want her back, what if she’d found other people she wanted to be with?
‘Amber?’ Faye stood up. She couldn’t quite believe it. It had to be a mirage, but it wasn’t: it really was her beloved Amber standing awkwardly at one side of the garden, watching.
‘Amber!’ she roared.
Christie and Maggie watched the two women embrace so hard it must have crushed their bones.
‘Mum!’
‘Amber!’
They were both sobbing and hugging, and saying sorry at the same time.
Christie got to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go home,’ she whispered to Maggie.
‘Me too,’ agreed Maggie.
They both slipped out of the side gate, leaving mother and daughter in their own little world.
It was a beautiful evening and the sun was low in the sky now, with a hint of deep pink soaring up from the horizon, bathing Summer Street in its rosy glow. Across the road, children played in the park, dog owners walked slowly as their pets danced along happily, and a teenage boy and girl sat on the pavilion steps talking quietly, their arms around each other.
Christie walked home slowly, thanking all the stars in heaven that she lived in such a special place.
Acknowledgements
There are so many people to say thank you to but first on the list are the three men in my life who are simply the loves of my life: John, Murray and Dylan.
There’s nothing nicer in the world than being ‘Mummy Cathy’, as Murray calls me, in our family. I love you three guys.
Very little would be possible without the help of Mum, who can still make me roar laughing in the middle of a crisis. An enormous, grateful thank you to my darlings Lucy and Francis, amazing and talented people who are always there for me; thanks to Anne for being an inspiring mum, and a big hug to Laura, Naomi and Emer, to whom this book is dedicated. Thanks to Sarah for so many things, and to Lisa for inspiring phone calls.
Thanks also to Annabel, David, Justine, Andrew, Jessica, Luke, Adam, Emily and John for our friendship.
Thanks to Margaret for kindness and for cool unflappability in every crisis; thanks to Marta for being a warm, funny and inspirational person; thanks to the kind and enviably long-legged angel Brenda Doody without whom this book wouldn’t have been even started, and no, do not buy me a KitKat, Brenda,
my body is a temple…Oh well, OK. You go, girl! And huge thanks to Liz for all your kindnesses.
Heartfelt thanks to Marian Keyes for being there when it mattered; to Kate Thompson for being one of those people who shine like a bright light in your life; to Kate Holmquist for an incredible friendship that was meant to be; to Lisamarie Redmond for being the funniest person I know; to Fiona O’Brien, a beautiful kindred spirit with talent in abundance; to Cathy Barry for endless encouragement; thanks to Susan Zaidan and Barbara Stack, my fellow twin mummies who agree that we’re blessed,
To Tricia Scanlan who is an angel herself; to Sheila O’Flanagan, the sharpest, wittiest woman in books. Thanks to my friend, the amazingly wise Maureen Hassett (without whom this book really wouldn’t have been finished); to Beccy Cameron for the incredible yoga advice when I needed it; thanks to the gorgeous Amanda Cahill for the fun on Wednesdays; thanks to SuzyMcMullan for hilarious emails; to Ber Kelleher-Nolan for great fun on nights out; to fellow writers Colette Caddle and Suzanne Higgins for the laughs; and to Angela Velden for being such an inspiration.
Enormous thanks and hugs to the marathon-running genius, the kind and lovely Jonathan Lloyd at Curtis Brown. Huge thanks to all the Curtis Brown team, especially the always kind Camilla Goslett, Diana Mackay, Carol Jackson and Sarah Thursby for the exquisite hand-knits that will be family heirlooms. Thanks to Louise Page for utter professionalism in every moment of hilarious panic, and for her marvellous sense of humour. And much thanks to lovely Deborah Schneider for everything she does, all accomplished with style and charm.
Thanks (and really, thanks begins to stop sounding like a useful word and becomes hopeless as it doesn’t say enough) to my family at HarperCollins. When I get into Fulham Palace Road, I want hours to rush around, meet everyone and hear all your news.
First, a huge thanks to the always exquisite Lynne Drew who is simply a marvellous friend and is as wise as she’s wonderful; thanks to the über-talented writer and editor Rachel Hore who has such vision that I can hear her voice in my head when I’m doing something daft, and who’s taught me how to self-edit; an enormous thanks to Amanda Ridout for being dynamic and making it clear that us small women are a force to be reckoned with. And I’m sure I’m taller…