The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye
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herself to be coaxed into tonight because, in spite of her fears and excruciating shyness, she did really want to meet someone and fall in love. And Janice was right – she wasn’t going to meet him sitting at home every night watching TV, or going out with her married girlfriends.
Kirsty turned and stared at the long panelled skirt which lay on the bed. It was made from black-and-grey tartan wool fabric, with decorative pouches at the hem, each one embellished with ivory embroidery. The tartan reminded Kirsty of her Scottish roots, and the bohemian design of her days at the Glasgow School of Art where she had met Scott.
She smiled, remembering, and lovingly touched the fabric of the garment as if it could transport her back to that world. Scott Elliott had been a second-year student studying Product Design when she met him. She was a first year, specialising in ceramics and textiles. He was full of infectious enthusiasm about all the ergonomic products he was going to design which would make the world a better place. And which would make his fortune.
She was swept off her feet. Their affair was intense and sustained over the next two years and, when Scott graduated with no prospect of a job and was persuaded to go back home to Ballyfergus to work in his father’s paper mill, their romance survived the separation. When she graduated the following year, she followed him there.
The phone made Kirsty jump.
‘I was just ringing to see how you were?’ Patsy said when she picked up. ‘Janice hasn’t rail-roaded you into tonight, has she?’
Kirsty laughed. ‘Well, just a bit.’
‘You don’t have to go, you know,’ said Patsy quickly. ‘Just tell her you’re not feeling well.’
‘It’s alright. I’m nervous as hell but Janice is right. I do need to start putting myself about a bit.’
‘I certainly hope not, Kirsty,’ said Patsy with a snigger.
‘That wasn’t a very good turn of phrase, was it?’ Kirsty giggled, then said, serious again, ‘Janice is doing me a favour. She’s giving me the push I need. I would like to meet someone and I’m not going to do that unless I start going out on dates, am I?’ She pressed on. ‘Actually, I’m just trying to work out what to wear. It’s blooming freezing out there tonight.’ She wrapped her free arm around her waist and glanced out at the grey sky.
‘What are you thinking of?’ said Patsy.
Kirsty looked at the skirt as she described it and Patsy said, ‘Nice. What are you going to wear with it?’
‘I was thinking of that black and lace top with the satin trim and…’
‘Mmm, a bit fussy,’ said Patsy, doubtfully, stopping Kirsty dead in her tracks.
‘What?’ she said, her heart sinking. She sat down abruptly on the bed beside the skirt. Never mind knowing how to behave on a date, she wasn’t even capable of dressing herself for one.
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ said Patsy and ploughed on, without waiting for an answer. ‘I think it would look fabulous with a plain black polo neck. You know the ribbed, cotton type. Have you got one?’
‘Yes…’ said Kirsty, cheering a little in the face of Patsy’s enthusiasm. She got up and opened the wardrobe door. Thankfully the polo neck was there and not in the laundry basket.
‘Now imagine it with one of your big funky necklaces, a big black belt and your black suede boots. The ones with the wedge heels. And that grey fur gilet of yours. Better still wrap the belt round the gilet – that’s very now.’
Kirsty hastily assembled a mental picture of the ensemble and breathed a sigh of relief. It was chic without being old-fashioned and she knew exactly which handcrafted necklace she would wear. Along with a chunky belt (the one with the big silver buckle, designed by one of her old pals from college), she would be true to her bohemian instincts. ‘Patsy,’ she said, ‘you’re so right. The last thing I need is a fashion disaster on top of my nerves.’
‘You’d look great whatever you wore, Kirsty. You’re so pretty. But in that you’ll be absolutely knock-out.’ Kirsty smiled into the phone, grateful for the blessing of her wonderful friend. There was a short pause and then Patsy spoke again. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘Dorothy and Harry have them for a sleepover. They collected them just after lunch. They were planning to take them to the pictures in Ballymena and then for a McDonald’s.’
‘The boys will love that,’ chuckled Patsy. ‘Harry and Dorothy are fabulous, aren’t they?’
‘The best,’ said Kirsty. She held her in-laws in the highest regard. The only complaint she had about them was that, in their generosity and love, they could sometimes be a bit suffocating. But that was a small price to pay for the unstinting affection they lavished on the boys, and the practical help they had selflessly given Kirsty over the last three years – and continued to give, without thought of return.
‘What do they think of you going on a date?’ said Patsy.
Kirsty paused. She worked at an old splat of white paint on the window with her fingernail. It wouldn’t budge. ‘I haven’t told them. They think I’m just going round to Janice’s.’
‘Oh,’ said Patsy, and there was an awkward silence which Kirsty felt obliged to fill.
‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell them the truth. I just feel a bit awkward about it. I know it’s ridiculous.’ She sank down on the bed again, careful not to sit on the skirt.
‘You’re not being unfaithful to Scott, you know, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Patsy.
‘It’s not that…’
‘And Scott would want you to be happy, Kirsty.’
‘I know,’ agreed Kirsty, with a long sigh. She wrapped her legs around each other until she was all tied up in a knot. ‘But it’s his parents…Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I just don’t want to hurt them.’
‘You should tell them. They’re going to have to face up to the fact that you’re only thirty-six, for heaven’s sake. Wish I was thirty-six again,’ she said wistfully and then went on, ‘it’s only natural for you to want a life of your own. Sooner or later you’re going to meet someone and everything will change.’
‘I think that’s what they’re afraid of. I think they like things the way they are. And part of me likes it too. I’ve got used to living this celibate life within my comfort zone.’
‘You deserve more than that, Kirsty,’ said Patsy. ‘Don’t sell yourself short.’
‘I won’t. And that’s why I’ve agreed to this date tonight. Much as I’m dreading it.’
‘It’ll be fine,’ reassured Patsy. ‘Just try to relax and be yourself.’ And then, ‘Oh, gotta go. Someone’s come into the gallery. Now you go out and have a blast! And don’t forget we’re meeting at No.11 on Wednesday night. You can tell us all about it then. Bye.’
Kirsty threw the phone on the bed and dropped her chin onto her chest, rubbing her forehead with the heels of her hands. Patsy was right – she ought to tell Harry and Dorothy. Ballyfergus was a small place and it would be unfair if they heard it from someone else. She reminded herself that she was perfectly entitled to go out with whoever she liked. As a widow for three years, she was a free woman, for heaven’s sake. So why did she feel so uncomfortable with the whole idea? And why so very guilty?
She sighed and stood up. Dusk was already starting to fall, bringing to an end the short winter day. The rest of the afternoon and early evening lay ahead of her, long and empty with nothing to do but get ready. As a single mother, Kirsty wasn’t used to luxurious stretches of time to herself. Other women might have revelled in the opportunity for some serious pampering; Kirsty was at a loss what to do with herself.
She went over to the window, put her palms on the cold glass and stared out