Just Between Us. Cathy Kelly
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course. They’d had a maid, for God’s sake, when nobody else in the country had one. But Rose came from a tumbledown house on some backroad in Wexford; a house with slates coming off the roof and plumbing out of the Ark. There hadn’t been enough money for food in the Riordain house, never mind flowers. Marrying Hugh had been Rose’s ticket out of there. Adele glowered at the phone. She had a good mind to phone back and point out that Rose could do the flowers herself and not waste money on a florist. Rose had a knack with flowers. As if in honour of her name, in summer there were always roses all over the place: blowsy yellow ones that matched the buttercup yellow walls and a big china bowl of riotous pink blooms which usually sat on a low, Scandinavian coffee table. All Rose ever did was to carelessly place a handpicked bouquet in a vase and the flowers all fell into place beautifully. She was the same when it came to clothes, thought Adele resentfully. The oldest white shirt looked elegantly informal on Rose Miller because she always had some trick of pinning her dark hair into a soft knot, or of hanging a strand of pearls around her neck, and then she looked instantly right.
Adele had spent years doing her best not to resent Rose. It hadn’t been easy, for all that Rose was so kind to her. Kindness, like other people’s happiness, could be very hard to deal with. And speaking of happiness, here was more proof of how lucky Rose was. She had a lovely home, three grown-up daughters, Stella, Tara and Holly, who’d never given her an iota of bother, and no financial worries, thanks to dear Hugh.
Hugh, Adele had always felt, was the real reason that Rose had had such a wonderful life. Adele adored her baby brother passionately. He was so clever and kind. He’d plucked Rose from an impoverished background and her dull secretarial job and turned her into a Miller lady. And now Hugh and Rose were celebrating their ruby wedding anniversary, complete with uniformed caterers and florists, the whole nine yards. It was like their wedding all over again, Adele thought bitterly, remembering herself, a drab bridesmaid next to the radiant Rose. All eyes had been on the bride with tiny coral-pink rosebuds pinned into the cloud of her dark hair. Even Colin, Adele’s young man, had remarked upon how lovely Rose looked.
‘Good old Hugh.’ Colin had been frankly envious. ‘He’s a lucky fellow to be marrying a girl like her.’
Adele had never forgiven Colin for not understanding how much she felt she’d lost Hugh to Rose. She’d spent hours pinning her fair hair up with little hair clips to show off her long neck and had even dabbed on a bit of rouge and Coral Surprise lipstick, angry with herself for giving in to vanity. It had been no good. Rose had glittered like the sun, overshadowing Adele without even meaning to, and Adele had never, ever been able to forgive her.
Lost in her memories, for a moment Adele let her customary guard down. Her normally stiff back drooped and she sank down onto the arm of a faded old wing chair. If she’d said yes to Colin all those years ago, would she have had a golden life, a family like Hugh and Rose? Colin had been a nice man, sweet and gentle. He simply hadn’t measured up when compared to Hugh, though. Nobody could. At the time, measuring up to Hugh had seemed very important, but now it was different. Adele was lonely. The sidelines were cold and she was always on them, watching other people’s lives and, somehow, not feeling a part of it all. While Rose had everything. Everything. Why had Lady Luck shone so brightly on Rose, who was only a Miller by marriage, and utterly bypassed Adele?
Even the autumn blight that had savaged Adele’s beech hedge had left her sister-in-law’s untouched. And Rose had her beloved girls, the golden Miller girls. Those three girls had led charmed lives, Adele felt, and though they’d undoubtedly been indulged by Hugh, it had all turned out so well.
Adele went to the desk where she kept her stamps and notepad, and wrote formally to accept the invitation to the anniversary party. The phone call had been more in the line of information gathering, rather than an actual response. Adele Miller had been brought up properly, and written invitations got a written reply. It was the kind of behaviour that implied breeding, the sort of thing that people who were dragged up in little cottages in the back of beyond didn’t understand.
‘I would be delighted to attend…’ wrote Adele, her language as formal as the Queen’s. She sighed. Despite everything, she was looking forward to the party, actually. Parties in Hugh’s were always fun and a fortieth wedding anniversary was sure to be a splendid affair. She’d get her hair set, of course. Happier at this thought, Adele began to plan.
The previous December: two weeks before Christmas
Rose Miller hated committees. Which was a bit unfortunate, because she was on three of them. The Kinvarra Charity Committee was the most irritating for the simple reason that its internal wranglings took so much time, there wasn’t a moment left to actually raise any money for charity. Discussions about the size of the type on the menus for the annual ladies’ lunch, and whether to serve salmon or beef, had taken endless phone calls and two lengthy meetings. If Rose hadn’t practically lost her temper, the committee would still be arguing over it.
‘Does it really matter what the menus look like or what we eat?’ she’d demanded fierily at the final, drawn-out meeting, rising to her feet and making all the other committee ladies clutch their copies of the minutes in shock. Mrs Rose Miller with her dark eyes flashing in anger was not a common sight. A tireless worker for the local charities, she was known for her calm self-possession and for her organisational skills. Tall and strikingly elegant with her trademark upswept hairdo, she was almost regal in her anger. ‘We’re here to raise money, not waste it. Is this our best effort for the underprivileged of this town? To sit in a cosy hotel bar and slurp our way through urns of coffee and entire boxes of custard creams while we discuss minutiae?’
‘Good point,’ squeaked Mrs Freidland, the current chairwoman, who’d been stubbornly holding out for flowing script type and seafood chowder followed by beef despite the fact that the majority wanted salmon for the main course and tiger prawns to start. ‘We’ve been wasting far too much time; let’s stop arguing and vote.’
Feeling rather shocked at her own outburst, Rose sat down and wondered, as she did every year, why she didn’t just resign and take up something less stressful, like hang-gliding or swimming with sharks. But every year she let her name be put forward because, if she wasn’t on the committee, no money would be raised at all. And she passionately wanted to help people. A life lived selfishly was a life half lived: that was her credo. The only difficulty was that for some of the other committee members, charity work was more a sign of social status than anything else.
The Church Hospitality Committee only met a couple of times a year and was the least trouble, as it only involved putting together a couple of suppers for inter-church gatherings and, occasionally, a party for a visiting missionary priest.
Rose’s third committee, the Kinvarra Motorway Action Group, was halfway up the scale of annoyance. Set up to oppose the proposed new route through Kinvarra’s nature park, an area of outstanding beauty around the midlands town, the KMAG committee included a highly efficient local solicitor, several prominent business people and three local politicians. Therefore things got done. But the public meetings were a total nightmare which usually ended up with the committee being instructed to work on at least four wildly differing approaches.
Rose needed a stiff gin and tonic after the KMAG public meetings, although Hugh grinned and told her that in his experience of public meetings, she’d be better off with a stiff drink beforehand.
As one of Kinvarra’s leading legal brains, Hugh was a committee veteran. He’d even served his time as the town’s mayor many years before, which he laughingly said had been a lesson to him Not To Get Involved. Rose had a photo of him in his mayoral robes on the mantelpiece: tall, stately and handsome with his immaculately brushed silver hair setting off the high forehead and the benevolent gaze. The camera hadn’t picked up the wicked glint in Hugh’s eyes that day, a look that said he didn’t mind the job but could have done without the mayoral necklace hanging like a cow chain around his neck.
‘It’s impossible to please even half the