Cathy Kelly 3-book Bundle

by Cathy Kelly

  Pippa was warming to her theme.

  ‘I live in a small town now and we’re trying to put down roots, have a real family, like we never had. Remember what it was like? How we never fit in anywhere? How we used to wish Mum was more like an ordinary mother, then we wouldn’t have had to leave her to be with Nora.’

  ‘We loved living with Nora –’ Megan protested.

  ‘Yes, we loved Nora, I do love her, but she wasn’t our mother. Mum was hardly an ordinary parent. I want something different for Kim and Toby,’ Pippa said, ‘and it’s like you’ve chosen Mum’s sort of world, that crazy racketing-round-the-world-after-a-man existence.’

  Megan could take it no longer.

  ‘Fine, I get it,’ she snapped. ‘You’re perfect and I’m the awful homewrecker.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘No, but you meant it.’ Megan didn’t know if she could cope with being so hurt. This was worse than what had happened with Rob Hartnell, worse almost than being on every newspaper as the harlot who’d ruined a good marriage. This was being rejected by the person who’d been there for her all her life.

  ‘I don’t see you as a homewrecker,’ Pippa insisted. ‘It’s just that you don’t stop to consider other people. Mum’s attitude to life is never to worry about what people think, and it’s not very good training for the real world. In the real world, sometimes you do have to care about what people think.’ Pippa paused as if to breathe. ‘That never mattered to her because, if things got too hairy, she just moved on, we all just moved on. Imagine if I did that with Kim and Toby? Imagine, if every time I ruined a relationship, I just picked them up and moved on?’ Pippa shuddered. ‘I could never put them through that.

  ‘That life affected both of us in different ways, Megan. I decided that I didn’t want that sort of life. And you…’ she paused. ‘You decided that you wanted one thing out of that sort of life: you wanted the protector, the guy Mum was always looking for. The one who was going to look after her and us. Except, he never did look after us, did he?’

  ‘I’m not looking for a protector,’ said Megan furiously. ‘I’m perfectly able to look after myself.’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ said Pippa, ‘and you’re very good at it. But the first chance you get with an older man who looked like he could take care of you, you went for him.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Megan, ‘I told you.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Pippa, ‘you haven’t told me. I worked it out. You’ve spent your whole life being the little girl. Even the way you dress: it’s all cute little girl-child. It’s time to move on.’

  ‘You mean it’s time to move on because it’s upsetting your husband’s family,’ said Megan shakily.

  ‘No,’ said Pippa. ‘I’d love you to move on, because having a husband and children is the most wonderful thing you can do. But you’re too like Mum, you’ll never be able to do that, not if you stay the way you are now. And because of that you’ll miss out on true happiness. That’s what I’d like for you: true happiness. Please, listen to me, Megan.’

  Megan had had enough. She hated confrontation of any sort and she needed to get away from all the painful things Pippa was saying.

  ‘I never meant to hurt you, Pippa. And I’m sorry you miss me. I never meant that to happen.’ She whirled out of the room and ran to the hall, pulled on her trusty skiing hat and her jacket and left the house.

  Eleanor took her walking stick to the gardens, just in case. She hated using the stick but sometimes when she sat down it was hard to get back to her feet. She didn’t want to be stuck on a park bench waiting to be rescued.

  It felt wonderful to be outside with the sun on her face. Too much time sitting in the apartment was bad for her. At home in New York, she’d had quite a busy social life and had walked everywhere. Before…Before Ralf had died. Here, she spent a lot of time alone: reading, writing and looking out her window.

  Being outside was like entering a painting you’d spent ages staring at. She was transported inside the world of the painting instead of staring at it from her window.

  In the acid-yellow sycamores, she spotted two goldfinches, red-streaked heads and golden wings making them stand out from the blue tits and sparrows. Pigeons ambled around the grass, pecking things in an exploratory manner. Eleanor watched out for squirrels: she’d seen them in the trees, the grey ones instead of the gentler red ones she remembered from her childhood.

  At home in Kilmoney, there had been a sweet old sheepdog named Patch and he’d adored chasing squirrels. Once, he’d found a dead one and had dragged it around joyfully like a child with a teddy bear until Eleanor’s mother had realised what it was and yelled: ‘Drop!’

  Thinking of home made her smile. It always did. Eleanor knew she didn’t smile as much these days.

  After a lifetime of helping people read the map to survive their lives, she wondered whether she had lost the ability to survive it herself.

  The park was empty apart from the bench in the furthest corner, where a dark-haired girl in jeans and a puffa jacket sat scrunched up, her head on her knees, clearly in distress.

  The old instinct to reach out to people in need rose up in Eleanor like a wave. There were plenty of other places to sit but she found herself walking towards the girl.

  Perhaps it was her slow, silent walk, but she had reached the seat before the girl looked up, a pale beautiful face streaked with tears.

  Go away, her face said.

  But Eleanor was made of sterner stuff. She sat down stiffly and was conscious of the girl moving so that she was facing the other way.

  No matter. Eleanor could wait. Time was the one thing she had in abundance.

  She watched two mothers walking into the playground with three small children in tow. Happy shrieks filled the air as the children launched themselves at the seesaw and the sand pit. A man in a suit with a takeaway coffee and a briefcase marched from one side of the park to the other, talking volubly on his mobile phone. A bus lumbered up the street beside Titania’s Palace, swaying like a grand old dowager. Golden Square went about its business and here, on a bench, Eleanor waited to see if the girl wanted to talk.

  Although Eleanor was looking ahead, in her peripheral vision she was aware of the girl straightening up. She folded slender legs underneath her, yoga-style, sighed heavily and leaned back against the seat.

  ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ Eleanor said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  Eleanor let the silence fall again.

  ‘Would you like to talk about it?’ she asked.

  The girl shook her head but she kept her body turned towards Eleanor.

  ‘I’m not the neighbourhood busybody,’ Eleanor went on. ‘Or maybe I am.’ She laughed out loud. ‘I used to practice as a psychoanalyst, so maybe I am secretly becoming the neighbourhood therapist.’

  A crazy giggle escaped from the girl’s mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she said, putting a hand to her lips. ‘I didn’t mean to laugh. It’s weird, though. You’re kidding me, right?’

  ‘I’m not kidding at all. I’m a psychoanalyst.’

  For the first time, the girl sat up straight and appeared to scrutinise Eleanor.

  She unfolded her legs and held her hand out formally.

  ‘I’m Megan. I’ve just had a row with my sister.’

  The words were out before she could stop herself. Why did she say that? It was so unlike her to discuss personal stuff with a stranger. But this stranger was a psychoanalyst and therefore was probably bound by one of those doctor/client confidentiality clauses. Or would that work on a park bench with a stranger?

  ‘Eleanor Levine, pleased to meet you.’

  Mrs Levine’s hand was firm and warm. In fact, she wasn’t so little-old-ladyish at all, Megan decided, looking at her properly. She was glamorous in spite of her age. She looked like one of those elegant East Coast actresses who adored Ibsen, were friends with wildly intellectual playwrights, and had studied with Stanislavski.

  ‘I’ve
met a friend of yours – Connie O’Callaghan.’ Mrs Levine went on. ‘She lives in the apartment above mine.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Megan, and her smile lit up her face. Eleanor sighed with pleasure. She loved beauty, could spend hours in the Met or the Guggenheim, and here was more true beauty. Megan’s face was a perfect oval with the finely carved bones of an alabaster Greek statue, and those hypnotic eyes.

  ‘You’re an actress, Connie told me,’ Eleanor said. ‘I am afraid I haven’t seen any of your work.’

  Megan gave a wry little smile. ‘It might be better that way,’ she said.

  ‘Not because you’re a bad actress, I think,’ Eleanor said, feeling her way.

  ‘No, because I’m the cautionary tale of what not to do when you’re an actress.’

  Again, Eleanor waited. It was amazing how human beings were hardwired to talk when they instinctively knew they were in the presence of someone who wanted to listen.

  ‘How does therapy work?’ Megan asked tentatively.

  ‘Well, first of all, if you’re a patient, we have a contract. We agree a time every week, you turn up and I listen. That’s our contract – that I will always be there. Your part of the contract is that you must turn up too. If you don’t, you still have to pay me. It’s making it formal, so you don’t decide to self-sabotage. If you commit to it, you commit.’

  Silence again. Another bus trundled down the road past Titania’s. Two in a short period of time, Eleanor thought. Incredible.

  ‘And if I don’t want to talk?’

  ‘Eventually, you will. I can think of very few people who haven’t talked.’

  ‘It works, right? It fixes people?’

  Eleanor shook her head. ‘It’s not about fixing. It’s about making you able to live your life to the best of your ability. You need to understand yourself so you can survive. My job is to provide the insights from the information you give me. I am not your friend, I am your therapist.’

  Eleanor felt herself grow weary. That was part of her problem now. After a lifetime of being on the sidelines of her patients’ lives, she was tired of that.

  So long as Ralf was alive, it had been fine. It had never mattered that she’d been on the periphery of her patients’ lives – she could come home to him and he made her feel whole again.

  Now he was gone and there was nothing to connect her with the world any more.

  ‘You are working over here?’ Megan asked.

  ‘I’ve retired,’ Eleanor said, aware that she sounded tired now. ‘Not that someone like me ever retires. It gets into your soul – probably it’s the same in your work?’

  Megan shrugged as if she didn’t care.

  ‘You mentioned being the cautionary tale for actresses. What did you mean?’

  Eleanor was close enough to see Megan’s beautiful eyes fill with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry I was rude earlier,’ Megan said hoarsely. ‘I’m upset. I’d love to talk to you sometime, but not now, OK?’

  She got up, smiled briefly, and almost ran out of the park.

  Eleanor stayed a moment longer. She hadn’t been kidding when she’d told Megan that what she did was an intrinsic part of her. Talking to patients had always fascinated her: the piecing together of their stories was enthralling. She felt a spark of energy inside. It would be good for both of them if Megan came to see her properly.

  11

  Fish

  Living beside the sea means there’s always food. We were lucky in Kilmoney because we had the ocean on our doorstep.

  You’d laugh at it now to think of people saying sorry for dishing up scallops and butter for dinner when there was no money for meat. Here in New York, people in fine restaurants pay good money for shellfish, and we had as much of it as we wanted.

  Your grandmother’s family used to collect winkles from the shore. Hard work it was, I can tell you. Those were the days before the waterproof boots and they’d spend the day knee-high in water on the rocks, filling a basket – creel we used to call it – with periwinkles. Many’s a poor family lived on winkles and cockles, cooked in milk for the children. When I was young, my mother made me eat shellfish three times a day in March to keep the cold out. I can still taste the salt tang of the sea when I see cockles today.

  We ate salmon if we were lucky enough to catch one, but the best salmon rivers were owned by the folk in the big houses, so we hadn’t the rights to fish those rivers. But your aunt Agnes had a friend out Bohola way who’d sneak out at night and fish in one of the rivers. I was never sure if we should eat salmon caught that way or not. Agnes used to say that the rivers belonged to no one, and we had as much right to them as anybody else.

  My favourite fish is fresh mackerel, bought on the quay from the man who hauled it out of the ocean, and cooked that day in a little flour and butter.

  We were lucky that none of the family were fishermen. I never looked at the sea with the wild white foam from the waves without saying a prayer. So many families lost men to that sea. Every family who fished had a different stitch in their woollen jumpers, so their bodies could be identified if they drowned.

  The tradition in the area was to put a live periwinkle in the corner of the house on St Brigid’s Day to protect the fishermen. The young priest, the man who was full of fire and brimstone, did his best to stop the women doing it. But they didn’t heed him. They did what made them feel better. That’s a good plan.

  Searching for a wedding dress was like going on an expedition to the Arctic, Connie decided. You knew you might be gone some time, but you had a hope of it working out all right in the end.

  Nicky had made a mood board compiled with ripped-out bits of various bridal magazines.

  ‘I like structural shapes, but these fluid lines are great too,’ she might say thoughtfully to Connie, who had no idea what she was talking about but was ready to be enthusiastic nonetheless.

  Weddings were a whole other world, Connie had discovered: there were entire magazines on wedding flowers, and fat books on etiquette, speeches and what a bride might need on her wedding day. Had all this been around when she was engaged? She had no idea. Her bridal dreams had been mistier things based on her walking up the aisle with Keith waiting for her.

  Nicky’s other constant topic was plastic surgery. She was editing an Irish guide to cosmetic procedures and, in Connie’s opinion, it had made her obsessed.

  It was a cool morning, and they were out on their first foray into actual dress hunting.

  ‘The book’s called Plastic Fantastic,’ Nicky explained. ‘The surgeon who’s written it is fabulous, but the best bit is the section on when it goes wrong. Not his work, obviously. You really wouldn’t believe what people will have done.’

  ‘Really?’ said Connie, who was still exhausted and had found it hard to get out of her cosy bed at eight. She didn’t think she’d ever been in the shops that early at the weekend.

  ‘You have to watch out for the shiny foreheads,’ Nicky went on. ‘The thing I can’t understand is why anyone would do it in the first place.’

  Nicky didn’t really want to know the answer because she thought she already knew it, Connie realised.

  Nicky thought it was stupidity. Connie knew it was fear: fear of ageing.

  ‘Why would you bother?’ Nicky said dismissively. ‘All that nipping and tucking and injecting. It’s kind of sad. There’s this woman who works in the shop two floors below us, she must be sixty but she dresses from Top Shop. Honestly, she had her first face lift at forty, the other girls in the shop say. And her eyes – they’re like cat’s eyes now, she’s had so much done. Why?’

  Connie knew why. The days when she could get away with a swish of foundation across her cheeks were gone. Somehow, in the last year, her face had changed. In the mornings, her eyes were puffy and her cheeks retained the creases from the pillow for an hour. She looked tired even when she’d had nine hours’ sleep.

  She could totally understand why a sixty-year-old woman would want to look younger when she
had to work in the expensive clothes shop below Peony’s offices. It was probably on a par with going to work in a school populated with gorgeous teenagers. On a good day, a person could cope with it. On a bad day, it was all she could do not to put a paper bag over her head.

  Ahead of them was their destination: Bridal Heaven, a onestop bridal shop.

  ‘And she does that thing with her lipliner – you know, drawing the line bigger than her lips really are. It’s awful,’ Nicky was saying.

  With a giant push, she opened the heavy door into the store, a grey-carpeted haven with walls lined with every shade of white, from dazzling snow to lush cream. Scented candles wafted rose and grapefruit into the air and the music was muted Tchaikovsky.

  ‘This is nice,’ Nicky said appreciatively.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Connie, but her mind was on the woman with the lipliner trick. Who wasn’t guilty of that sin sometimes? Just a smidgen of lipliner to fake bigger lips. Connie didn’t consider herself vain, but there were times when it was hard to face the ageing person in the mirror. And she wasn’t even forty. What would it be like when she was fifty?

  Nicky was too young to understand, but she would, one day. They were part of the modern generation of women who weren’t supposed to age. They were supposed to look like blemish-free, unwrinkled girls in skinny jeans and heels forever. Their mother hadn’t had these worries. She’d cut her hair short once she hit thirty, and had taken to wearing comfortable long skirts and flat, lace-up shoes with sheepskin lining.

  Connie could remember her mother preparing for a Christmas party and debating whether to wear her old blue two-piece (tie-front blouse and gathered, long skirt) or her black velvet dress (long sleeves with a lace frill on the hem). There had been no panic about getting her hair done, applying the latest make-up, or trying to look as good as women ten years younger.

  It was different now. Ageing was taboo.

  A sales assistant, a bright youngster who introduced herself as Jen, settled them into a changing room, and then the sisters began to roam the dresses.