The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye
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the mummy thing and, well, it’s about time I got back into the real world, I think. That’s why I’m thinking of painting.’
‘Commercially?’ said Patsy, and she sat up straight, her interest as art connoisseur and gallery-owner stimulated despite her lack of sobriety.
‘Don’t you think I’m good enough?’ asked Clare, too quickly, her glance bouncing between Patsy and the glass in her hand like a ping-pong ball. Then, as though it was too much of a distraction, she set the flute on a shelf behind the loo and folded her arms. She blushed, her insecurity laid bare.
‘Hell’s bells. You’re more than good enough,’ enthused Patsy. ‘Sure, before you had the children, your pictures sold like hot cakes at the annual art show,’ she added, referring to Clare’s striking watercolours of local scenes. Janice nodded in agreement.
‘Yes, but that was all very…very amateur,’ said Clare. ‘I’m thinking of trying to make a career out of it.’
‘And you will, Clare. Won’t she, girls?’ said Kirsty, looking round the room for support.
Everyone nodded. ‘Just think, you could be the new Sam McLarnon,’ Janice said, referring to a highly regarded local artist who, like Clare, specialised in watercolours of the East Antrim coast.
‘If I was half as good as Sam, I’d be delighted,’ said Clare.
The conversation turned to the going rate for a McLarnon watercolour and Janice tuned out. It was her turn next to make a resolution but she had no idea what to say. Clare’s clear-headed ambition served only to underline the inherent futility of her own existence. She didn’t make resolutions as a rule, past experience having taught her that what happens, happens. You just have to ride the wave of life, deal with it, cope. Just as she had always done. Fate dealt you a hand and it was foolishness, almost bordering on arrogance, to think that you could actually influence it.
Just as she hated looking back, Janice abhorred the notion of planning ahead. She’d discovered long ago that the best way to deal with life was to live, like a child, in the moment. The making of resolutions implied that you had control over your life. And Janice knew that this was not the case.
Still, she had more sense than to share these deterministic views with her friends. She didn’t want them to think her depressing on this of all nights, when as well as looking back, everyone wanted to look forward with hope and optimism. And most of all she didn’t want to disappoint them.
‘Your turn, Janice,’ said Clare, right on cue.
‘Well,’ said Janice, clearing her throat. ‘I’ve decided that this year I’m going to…to start a new project.’
There was silence, the others waiting for her to go on, assuming she had some further clarification to share with them. Patsy nodded her head encouragingly.
A loud rap on the door saved her. ‘Janice, are you in there?’ said her husband’s voice.
‘Yes, Keith!’ she shouted in response. The women collapsed into a spate of girlish sniggering, like they’d been caught smoking behind the bike sheds at school.
‘Who’s in there with you?’ said Keith, not waiting for her to answer and sounding slightly peeved. ‘You’ve been gone ages. People are wondering where you are.’
Janice peered at the gold Rolex on her arm and said, in a stage whisper, ‘Shit! Is that the time?’ She pulled herself to her feet, hoisted her long black velvet dress to her knees and stepped gingerly out of the bath. ‘It’s just me and the girls in here, Keith,’ she shouted. ‘We’re coming.’
And then to the other women she added in what she thought was a whisper, ‘Come on, girls. It’s gone eleven.’
They filed sheepishly out of the bathroom into the bedroom, where Keith stood with a smile on his face, but not in his eyes. At fifty-two, he was fourteen years older than Janice but he still had the build of a rugby player – stocky legs, broad shoulders and muscled arms. He wore smart dark blue jeans with a brown belt and soft chocolate suede shoes. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His greying hair suited his tanned face – by anyone’s standards, he was a handsome man.
‘What were you doing in there?’ he whispered, as he took Janice proprietarily by the elbow and steered her along the landing after the others.
‘Not so fast, Keith,’ she protested, shaking off his hand. ‘I can’t walk in these heels.’
‘You can’t just go off in the middle of a party and leave me like that,’ he persisted.
She stopped to face him at the top of the stairs. Down below in the hallway, people milled about, the sound of their chatter rising like a chorus, and the rhythmic beat of tooloud music filling the air. In heels she and Keith were on a level, nose to nose. She could see from the softness in his hazel eyes that he wasn’t really angry with her. Just a little annoyed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise we were in there so long.’
‘But you’re neglecting the other guests.’
The truth was Janice didn’t really care about the other guests. She wanted to spend time with her best friends. Most of the people downstairs were business contacts of Keith’s. Though she would never admit this to her husband, she found them intimidating. They were lawyers, barristers, doctors and the like – all the well-heeled of Ballyfergus. She felt intellectually inferior to them.
‘Aren’t the staff doing their job?’ she said, referring to the caterers they’d hired in for the night to serve food and drinks.
‘Yes. But that’s not the point, Janice. You’re the hostess and it’s rude to abandon your guests.’
Janice opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. He was right of course. And then she remembered, as she had done every single day for the last fifteen years, what she owed him. This knowledge didn’t loom large over their marriage – and no doubt rarely crossed Keith’s mind, if at all. But it was never far from Janice’s, and it moderated all her thoughts and actions. She did not resent Keith because of the debt she owed him, far from it. She was inordinately grateful. But it was there nonetheless.
‘Janice?’ said Keith.
‘Huh?’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Nothing,’ she said brightly and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t…think. It was rude of me. Come on, let’s go down.’
‘Just a moment,’ he said, reaching out to flick a lock of dark chestnut hair off her shoulder. ‘Have I told you that you look gorgeous tonight?’
‘Thank you,’ she replied automatically and returned a frozen smile, self-conscious and awkward. Keith’s frequent compliments had her spoiled. So often had he told her he loved her and that she was beautiful, that she had become immune to his praise. It wasn’t that she doubted the sincerity of his words. They just did not penetrate the surface of her, as though they were arrows meant for some other target, someone more worthy.
‘There you are, Janice! Keith!’ came the sound of Patsy’s voice from the bottom of the stairs, demanding their attention. ‘You’ve got to come and see this. Hurry up!’
‘We’d better go down,’ said Janice, without looking back, and she picked her way down the steps. At the bottom, Patsy grabbed her by the hand and pulled her in the direction of the large drawing room. When she glanced over her shoulder Keith, swallowed up by the crowd, was nowhere to be seen.
Patsy led her into what used to be the playroom. Now that Pete was nearly eighteen, it served as a second, more informal, lounge. Someone had pulled both of the black leather sofas into the centre of the room facing each other, thereby