Keep Your Friends Close

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Yum,’ I say, feeling Gillian needs to hear my approval.

  I wonder when she’s going to eat hers. I don’t want this to be another situation when I’ve munched away and she hasn’t taken a bite. That was horribly uncomfortable last time. But who am I kidding? Whether Gillian eats her breakfast or not, this is all excruciatingly awkward. And I wonder how on earth I’m going to cope with this for a couple of weeks.

  ‘This reminds me of school,’ Gillian says, suddenly.

  ‘Really?’ I say, between mouthfuls. ‘In what way?’

  ‘You know. Sitting on each other’s beds. Gossiping the way friends do.’

  I don’t say anything. Not least because Gillian and I were never friends in school. I don’t remember her. I mean, certainly her name is familiar, being Mr Buckley’s daughter, but it was a huge school and our paths never really seemed to cross. Once or twice maybe in all my years there.

  ‘Good times,’ Gillian muses. ‘Such good times.’

  I almost choke on a raspberry as I wonder if Gillian really remembers school that way. I can’t say I ever sat on any other girl’s bed gossiping. And I don’t remember inviting anyone to sit on mine. Maybe the other girls did but I never noticed. I had Luke. His was the only bed I ever wanted to be in.

  ‘Do you ever miss it?’ Gillian asks.

  ‘School?’

  ‘St Peter’s,’ she says, and her nostalgic tone catches me by surprise. I thought Gillian ran away because she hated the place. I guess there must have been another reason. And I suddenly find myself curious to know why Gillian disappeared and where she was for the last nineteen years. And the slow, uncomfortable realisation that Luke and I have welcomed a stranger into our home hits me.

  ‘Can you really believe it’s almost been twenty years?’ Gillian asks.

  I can. My time in St Peter’s feels like a lifetime ago and I never think about my schooldays. Not until recently when Tina rang in to Good Morning, Ireland. Luke never mentions school either. But I get the distinct impression that Gillian is the opposite. She almost seems to be pining for a time gone by.

  ‘Twenty years. Gosh, makes you feel old when you think about it like that, doesn’t it?’ I laugh, hoping to move on from this conversation.

  ‘Um,’ Gillian says, and she almost seems irritated by my laughter. As if a giggle to lighten the toll of ageing has offended her. She is so strange, I think, as I remember an expression my mother was rather fond of. If you want to know me, come to live with me. She used to say it all the time when I was little. Always accompanied by a shake of her head and a bright smile. My father was a brilliant chef but he was also insanely messy. The kitchen would be a blitz of pots and pans when he worked. My mother said if they’d lived together before they were married, she’d have learned of his bad habits and would have run for the hills. She was joking, of course. My parents made an amazing team. He was messy, she was anally retentive. They were good for each other. They were great for me.

  But the expression is apt here. A business partnership is a lot like a marriage, and I do wonder if Gillian and I can make this work. Maybe I should consider running for the hills now?

  Gillian shifts granola around her bowl with the back of her spoon. And there’s something poignant about how she sits with her shoulders slouched forward as if the weight of unhappiness is dragging them down. All that money and she’s still so miserable, I think. And yet again I wonder if Luke and I are making a mistake. He should be here. For me and for our baby. Our family should come first. I hate myself for thinking it, but I don’t want to end up like Gillian and her father. All the money in the world couldn’t bring their family back together and now it’s too late.

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out that Andrew Buckley’s death has affected Gillian more deeply than she’s letting on. Maybe she has regrets that they were still estranged, feels that she should have gone to his funeral after all. I know I would.

  I’m about to tell Gillian that we need to reconsider Luke’s stay in Ohio when her phone rings.

  She reaches into her pocket and, glaring at the screen, she says, ‘Sorry, I’ve got to take this.’

  Gillian stands up and presses the phone to her ear, but she waits until she walks out of my bedroom, closing the door behind her, before she says, ‘Hello. Gillian Buckley speaking.’

  I set my bowl down on the tray and check my phone. There’s still no word from Luke. I type a simple I love you and hit send. I’ve already asked how his flight was, if landing was okay and if he caught his connecting flight. I try not to read too much into his silence. I know better than most how exhausting travelling can be and I assume he’s tucked up in a fancy Ohio hotel snoring his head off. I expect his first text will be long and grovelling and I’m lighter just thinking about it.

  My attention is drawn towards my bedroom door. Gillian’s anxious vibrato piques my concern.

  ‘Stop calling me,’ she shouts. ‘Don’t ever call this number again. I have nothing to say.’

  I clutch my phone, my knuckles whitening and my hand trembling slightly as I dial Luke’s number.

  ‘Pick up. Oh please, please pick up,’ I whisper as it rings and rings.

  Chapter Forty-One

  DARCY

  Monday 15 July 2019

  Morning light streams past the curtains that I forgot to close last night. I rub my eyes and start to wake up. The two half-eaten bowls of granola and empty glass are still on the tray beside my bed. The glass is grubby with a scattering of dried pulp stuck around the rim. I drag myself out of bed determined to make it downstairs today.

  Gillian never came back upstairs after breakfast and now when I appear in the kitchen behind her, my legs shaky and my arms aching from the weight of the flimsy tray, she seems surprised to see me.

  ‘I thought you were sleeping,’ she says, setting down a cup with steam swirling from the top to hurry over and take the tray from me.

  ‘I was,’ I admit. I smile as if I have more energy than I do and, noticing Gillian’s chalk-grey pencil skirt and lemon blouse, I ask, ‘Are you going into work?’

  ‘I have to,’ she says, tumbling everything off the tray into the sink. ‘But I’ve made you coffee. I was just about to bring it up to you, actually.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, glancing at the countertop. There’s a lonely cup waiting by the sink. There’s no steam and I wonder how long it has sat there.

  I must have made a face because Gillian says, ‘I wasn’t sure how you like it.’

  ‘Black is good. Thanks,’ I say.

  Gillian folds her arms, saying, ‘Go back up to bed; I’ll bring it up to you.’

  It sounds very much like an order, and I shake my head. ‘Actually, I think I’ll stay down here for a while. Maybe watch some TV or something.’

  Gillian’s eyes thin and I can tell she’s irked, almost as if I’m the one intruding in her space.

  ‘But we don’t want you overdoing it,’ she says. ‘Luke will never forgive me if I don’t take care of you.’

  Her words are coated in a thick layer of familiarity, as if she knows my husband like the back of her hand.

  ‘I’ll take it easy.’

  ‘Speaking of Luke . . .’ she continues while pottering about in the kitchen, overly comfortable. ‘How is he? Settling in all right?’

  ‘It’s early days yet,’ I say, my tone laying claim to my husband.

  ‘Does he like the hotel?’ she asks.

  ‘He, eh . . .’ I tug at the collar of my T-shirt that suddenly feels too tight. ‘He erm . . . he didn’t actually say.’

  ‘I hope he likes it. It’s my favourite.’

  I smile. I’m not sure what else to do.

  ‘Right,’ Gillian says, turning her wrist to glance at her watch. ‘I’ve got to go. Get yourself back to bed, eh?’

  ‘Mm-hmm,’ I say as she leaves the room. I glance inside the cup of coffee waiting on the countertop. As I expected, a cold scum floats on top. Gross. I toss it into the sink and fl
ick the kettle on to make a fresh cup.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Gillian says, and I feel her hand on my shoulder. I thought she had gone. Is she pinching the fleshy part between my neck and collarbone on purpose, or am I imagining it? ‘I’m not leaving until I know you’re tucked up, resting.’

  I pull away from her and glare, waiting for her to realise she’s way out of line.

  ‘Bed,’ Gillian reiterates with a click of her fingers.

  A string of profanities is on the tip of my tongue. I’m aching to tell Gillian to get the hell out of my house. No amount of money is worth this! But then I remember how bad our finances are. Gillian has us over a barrel. I can’t risk ruining the deal. I have to play nice. I need to speak to Luke. I’m more desperate than ever to reach him. He needs to come home.

  ‘Bed.’ I nod, feigning obedience as I forget about coffee and hurry back upstairs to grab my phone.

  I dial Luke’s number but there’s no answer. Instead, I email him. Because even if he’s lost his phone, if his baggage has gone awry, whatever the hell has gone wrong, he can always find his way to an online cafe and contact me from there. I discard my phone on the bedside table just as it begins to ring. I fumble to grab it again, praying it’s Luke.

  ‘Everything all right up there?’ Gillian shouts from downstairs.

  ‘All good!’ I shout back. ‘I’m just getting into bed now.’

  Gillian doesn’t say anything more and I hear the kitchen door close with a sudden bang.

  My phone continues to ring and when I look at the screen I see Mildred’s name flashing up.

  ‘Hey there,’ I answer. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Darcy, where are you?’ Mildred asks.

  I pause. I could swear I hear footsteps on the stairs again. I pull the phone away from my ear and jam it against my chest.

  ‘Gillian?’ I whisper, and wait.

  Silence.

  I wait. And wait.

  Nothing.

  ‘Darcy. Darcy, you there? Where are you?’ Mildred’s voice carries over the distant line.

  I shake my head and drag my phone back to my ear. ‘Sorry. So sorry, Mildred. I’m at home. Why? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m really sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve been trying to get hold of Luke all morning. His phone keeps ringing out. And he’s not replying to emails, either.’

  ‘He must have lost his phone,’ I say.

  ‘Erm, oh, okay . . .’ Mildred says.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ I ask.

  ‘I . . . eh . . .’ Mildred is a stuttering mess.

  ‘Look,’ I say, sharply. ‘I know I’m on sick leave but if something is wrong at work I need to know.’

  ‘It’s just . . .’ Mildred takes a deep breath before she races on. ‘I’ve been on the phone all morning trying to calm down most of our suppliers.’

  ‘Mildred slow down,’ I say. ‘I didn’t catch all that.’

  ‘No one has been paid, Darcy. That’s what’s wrong. No one. Not the staff. Not the suppliers. Not a single soul.’

  ‘That’s crazy.’ I shake my head as if she can see me. ‘That can’t be right. Luke took care of everything for the weeks ahead before he left. He was buried in paperwork. I practically had to beg him to come to bed the other night, he was so tired. There has to be some sort of a mistake. Have you spoken to the bank?’

  ‘Yes. Of course,’ Mildred snaps, as if that is a stupid question.

  ‘And?’ I snap back, equally as frustrated, worry mounting in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘There’s no money there. It’s heavily overdrawn,’ Mildred says.

  My mind races. I don’t understand. I thought we had more credit. Luke and I went over the books just a few weeks ago. We had months before we faced foreclosure. And that was without Gillian’s investment coming in.

  Mildred exhales, and I can hear her exhaustion. ‘I’m sorry, Darcy. I know you’re not well and stress like this is the last thing you need but—’

  ‘You did the right thing calling me,’ I say, cutting across her. ‘We’ll get to the bottom of this, try not to worry. Just don’t take any more calls for now, the less people who know the better. I bet this is all a big mix-up and we’ll have everything figured out by evening.’

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ Mildred says, and I can sense she’s already reassured. I just wish I felt as confident as I sounded.

  I’m breathless as I bend and reach under my bed for my laptop bag. I’m normally on my laptop all the time. I could lie in bed with it on my bump and still work on things. But I’ve been so ill recently I haven’t used it in ages. I brush off the dust that has accumulated on top and by the time I crawl on to the bed, my heart is racing with a mix of worry and exhaustion.

  Trying to log into my online account is a nightmare and an error message in stubborn red font appears on the screen every time I click ENTER on my password. I try manually answering the security questions.

  What was your mother’s maiden name?

  Kinsella, I type confidently, but nothing happens.

  Next I opt to reset the password, but the system informs me that my email is not the correct email associated with the account. It takes me a while to realise that I’ve been blocked from the account. The shock of it makes me numb for a moment.

  Then I slam my laptop shut and hurry to the wonky floorboard as fast as I can. The gap between it and the next board is wider now and I slide my finger between them and pop the board. My nail snaps. I ignore the stinging and my bleeding finger and drag out the bundle of bills. I flick through them, smearing them with my blood. They’re mostly household bills. Electricity. Phones. Heating. They’re all overdue notices. Some of them are dated weeks ago, even months. I concentrate on the letter from the electricity company. Skim reading, I discover they’ve been in touch several times and this is the end of the line. If they don’t receive payment within days they’re cutting us off. There are handwritten sums on the bottom of some of the pages. I recognise Luke’s writing as he tries to balance large numbers. There’s a letter from the bank too. It’s punctuated with capital letters and formal language adduces that we haven’t paid our mortgage and the bank is preparing to repossess our house. I drop the letter and clutch my chest. What the hell is Luke trying to do? Destroy us? How could he possibly think he could hide something like this from me? We could lose our home before the baby is born. I tear off the end of one bill and wrap it around my pulsing finger. I stuff the rest of the paper back in the hole and slide the floorboard into place again.

  Physically shaking, I grab my phone and call Luke again. I fully expect the phone to ring out. When I hear Luke’s raspy voice say, ‘Hello’, I choke back emotion.

  ‘Oh God you’re there,’ I say. ‘What’s going on? Why haven’t I heard from you? We really need to talk.’

  I expect Luke to pick up on my anger but he’s silent apart from heavy breathing. As if he’s been submerged under water and he’s just come to the surface, catching his breath.

  ‘Are you okay?’ I ask.

  There’s a pause and the line cracks. I hear a throaty grunt like an animal in pain before Luke says, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why haven’t you called? I’ve been worried,’ I say.

  Luke doesn’t reply and the only sound on the line is his laboured breathing. I’ve never heard him so exhausted.

  ‘Listen, Luke, I know it’s still early over there and I’m sorry for waking you but there’s something important I need to talk to you about. Okay?’

  There’s more deep breathing and Luke puffs out. ‘Is it the baby?’

  I sigh. ‘The baby is fine. I’m fine.’

  Luke’s breathing lightens and I can sense his relief.

  ‘But we do have a big problem,’ I say. ‘We have no money.’

  ‘Okay,’ Luke whispers, and I think I can hear a voice in the background.

  ‘Okay?’ I snap. ‘No. Not okay. Didn’t you hear me? We’re broke. Mildred is going crazy; she’s had staff and clients chewing her
up and spitting her out. People haven’t been paid.’

  There’s a guttural gurgle and I could swear Luke is drifting in and out of sleep. And I’m almost certain someone is talking to him. I can hear muffled mumbles followed by heavy breathing as if someone is there with him, telling him what to say. Christ, I’m losing my mind.

  ‘I can’t log into the account,’ I say, becoming ever more paranoid as if someone is listening in or looking over my shoulder. It must be the stress. ‘All the settings have changed,’ I continue. ‘The passwords, the security. All of it. I can’t even get in to see what’s happened. Did you do this?’

  Luke doesn’t reply.

  ‘Our mortgage, Luke. You haven’t paid our mortgage. I’m scared.’

  ‘Gillian is taking care of everything,’ Luke says, almost robotically.

  ‘What?’ I say, palpitations making it hard to breathe. ‘This doesn’t sound like you. Where are you? Are you alone?’

  ‘Gillian is taking care of everything,’ he repeats.

  ‘I heard you,’ I snap again, struggling not to shout. ‘I just don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about. Gillian has no access to our accounts. She can’t authorise payments. She can’t save the roof over our head.’

  ‘Gillian is taking care of everything.’

  ‘Luke, I swear . . .’ I grit my teeth. ‘If you say that one more time . . .’

  There’s no reply.

  ‘Look,’ I say, taking a calming breath. ‘I’ll get on to the bank and get this sorted, but Luke . . .’ A sadness washes over me and it’s not money worries, or even panic, that Darcy’s Dishes could be in real trouble. It’s something else. Something I don’t quite understand. ‘You need to come home. Please. I need you here. Just come home.’

  Luke doesn’t speak. The line crackles.

  ‘I’m serious, baby,’ I say. ‘Book a flight. Book it now. We’ll face everything together when you get here. Just come home.’

  There’s silence on the line. Not even the sound of breathing.

  ‘Luke?’

  Nothing.

  ‘Luke are you there?’

  More silence.

  ‘Luke, you’re really freaking me out. Talk to me.’