The Birthday Party: The spell-binding new summer read from the Number One bestselling author

by Meaney, Roisin

  Nice enough girl – and hadn’t she and Tilly’s young man been going out for a while? And here came Tilly from the house, her face setting a little, Susan thought, when she spotted Eve. To be expected, maybe.

  Laura returned to the table with two brightly wrapped packages. ‘Isn’t she kind?’ she remarked, to nobody in particular. ‘She never forgets them.’ She set the gifts on the ground by her chair. ‘I asked her to join us, but she was in a rush somewhere.’

  In due course the birthday cake was produced, along with the promised ice-cream. Candles were blown out, wishes made. When she thought a decent amount of time had passed, Susan rose to her feet.

  ‘If you don’t mind,’ she said, ‘I’ll leave the rest of you to it’ – and the lack of protestations from her companions made her suspect again that they’d all been put in the picture. ‘Isn’t she brave?’ one would say when she’d left. ‘It must be so difficult, especially with a young child’ – and they’d all agree, smug in their happy marriages.

  Laura accompanied her and Harry to the gate. ‘Fancy a bit of lunch here tomorrow, around one?’

  ‘Why don’t you come to us after lunch instead, and you can relax with coffee in the garden?’ Much as she loved her stepfamily, the thought of a noisy lunch didn’t appeal. ‘And bring Tilly if she’s free.’

  ‘I will, if she’s not skipping off to be with her one and only in the ice-cream van.’

  ‘I met Eve in the hotel,’ Susan told her then, waiting while Harry settled himself into the buggy. ‘Did you know she has a summer job there?’

  ‘I did – I met Henry, the owner, the other day and he mentioned it.’ Laura swooped and kissed Harry’s cheek. ‘Did you have fun, sweetie?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Will you come and play with the girls another day?’

  Another nod.

  ‘Great.’ She straightened up and hugged his mother. ‘See you tomorrow then.’ She stood at the gate blowing kisses to Harry as they walked away.

  Back at the hotel, Susan gave him his bath and put him into pyjamas, and turned on the television. She sat on the navy couch and opened her book and tried to read it, but no matter how many times she went over a sentence the words refused to soak into her head, and eventually she gave up. She reached for the hotel phone and dialled the number for room service.

  ‘A glass of Sauvignon Blanc,’ she said, because it was Saturday evening and she was missing her husband, and it was all she could think of to do.

  Imelda

  HE WASN’T AN ARTIST – OR RATHER, HE DIDN’T EARN A living from it. He was a chef, with his own restaurant in a hilltop village that was an hour north of Rome. His older son, Caesar, was a doctor with Médecins sans Frontières, and currently stationed in a refugee camp in Bangladesh. Paolo, his younger son and a wine producer, was managing the restaurant in his absence. This was Gualtiero’s fourth trip to Ireland, his first time on Roone.

  He was seventy-one. On the cusp of his fortieth birthday he had married a woman twenty years his junior. Dorotea was the daughter of Roberto, his oldest friend, and the marriage had been a happy one. To celebrate their twentieth anniversary, when Caesar was seventeen and Paolo fourteen, the family went for a holiday to Croatia. On the third day, Dorotea left their apartment for an early-morning swim – and an hour after Gualtiero and his sons reported her missing, her body was taken from the water by a fisherman, a mile down the coast. She was thirty-nine.

  Following her death, Gualtiero, a keen swimmer, never entered the water again – but although it had robbed him of his wife, his love for the sea remained strong. Some months after he’d become a widower he’d begun to paint it, working solely in acrylics, and without the benefit of a single art class. His paintings were alive with such colour and energy that Imelda could almost feel the spray.

  The sea in Ireland is wonderful, he told her. Every day is different: one day angry, another sleeping, another full of ’appiness. He told Imelda that he gave away all his paintings, mainly to friends and family members. Some I put in my restaurant, he said. If person come in and say they like, I give them.

  You could sell them, Imelda protested, but this only prompted one of his soft smiles. Eemelda, I do not want money. I ’ave enough money. If I give my painting to a person, I make the person ’appy. For me, that is better than money.

  How could she argue with that?

  Eight days after his unexpected arrival, he was still with her. He’d been full of apologies when she’d failed to find alternative accommodation for him. He’d offered to leave, when two days had passed and still no other lodgings had materialised. I am trouble for you, he’d said. I will change my aeroplane ticket and return to Italy – but by then she’d got over the shock of him landing on the doorstep, and was coming around to the astonished realisation that in fact, his presence in the house was welcome.

  Left alone after her sister’s departure, surrounded everywhere she looked by reminders of Hugh, she’d felt herself entering a kind of twilight zone. In between visits from Nell and Eve and various neighbours, solitary hours would pass without her being able to account for them. Mealtimes would often come and go unobserved; she’d watch a television programme and take nothing in; she’d stand in a room, wondering what had brought her there.

  And then Eve had shocked her with her angry outburst, and the neighbours’ visits had dwindled, and Imelda had floundered on, defeated and bereft, wondering if she would ever feel anything approximating normal again. At her lowest ebb, Gualtiero had come – and within a day of having another person in the house, another person to think of, and cater for, she’d begun to pull herself back, to begin to function again.

  Is possible I make breakfast for me? he’d asked, three mornings in. Is not necessary for you to make – and because Imelda thought he’d feel less of a burden if she agreed, she’d put up no objection. She ate earlier than him in the morning; now she could make herself scarce afterwards. He could have the kitchen to himself, and she’d be spared the effort of making small talk as she served him.

  But the following morning she’d wandered in in search of a pen, completely forgetting he was there. He’d sprung up immediately and offered her coffee, and she’d felt it would be churlish to refuse. He’d already scrambled some eggs for himself – and supplemented them, she’d noted, with smoked salmon, which she hadn’t bought.

  And he must have sensed that she’d rather listen than talk, because it was then, as they’d sat across the table from one another, as she’d sipped what was really very good coffee – he’d brought it, he admitted, from home – that she’d learnt about his drowned wife, and his sons, and his restaurant.

  Goodness, she’d thought, a trained chef. You must feel free to cook an evening meal here anytime you want, she’d said. She hadn’t offered to provide dinner, although she’d felt a little guilty about leaving him for an entire month at the mercy of Roone’s rather unimaginative eateries – but as long as he could cook it himself, she saw no reason not to allow him to do so.

  What difference would it make to her? She was past such small concerns. She could still have her own space: they could agree on a schedule. I generally eat around seven, she’d told him, so you could have the kitchen after that. Anytime from eight o’clock, if it suited. Italians ate late, didn’t they?

  He’d thanked her for the invitation, and said that eight o’clock would suit him very well, and so their new routine had begun. She’d cleared a shelf for him in the fridge, and invited him to use what staples were there rather than buy his own. Butter, milk, eggs, she’d said, things like that. No point in having two lots. We can both keep them topped up – and he in his turn had urged her to help herself to anything she might find that he had provided.

  So she’d caught herself dipping into his jar of olives stuffed with pimentos – Hugh hadn’t cared for olives, so she’d rarely bought them – and cutting a sliver from his block of pecorino cheese – she’d never even heard of it! – and adding a little smoked salmo
n to her pasta.

  Somewhere along the line, she’d found herself telling him about Eve. We fostered her, she’d said, my husband and I. Looked after her, she’d added, when the term had puzzled him. Her own family – had problems. She gave no details, seeing no need for them. She lived with us for a few years, but now she has her own place. She’s twenty, just gone.

  She’d also referred to their recent estrangement, unable to keep it to herself. It’s troubling, she’d told him. I know she’s grieving too – she and my husband were close – but I wish she hadn’t pushed me away like that.

  He was a stranger: she had no right to burden him with her concerns. He was so easy to talk to, that was the problem. When she spoke, he was silent; he really listened. He made it feel alright to tell him these things.

  Don’t worry, Eemelda, he’d said. She is sad, like you say – and because she trust you, she know she can be angry, and you will forgive her. I think she come back. I think she come soon.

  He’d been right about that. Eve had shown up the very next morning – but Imelda’s relief at the sight of her had been short-lived. So rude she’d been to Gualtiero; so embarrassed Imelda had felt. Doubtless she’d forgotten the arrangement to accommodate him that had been made months ago, just as Imelda herself had forgotten it – but even so, her reaction to his presence was baffling, and simply not acceptable. What right had she to dictate to Imelda, to say who should and shouldn’t be allowed to stay in the house, whatever the circumstances? You’d think she’d at least have waited for an explanation before making a show of herself like that.

  I’m so sorry, Imelda had said to Gualtiero after Eve had stormed off, but he’d waved away her apology. She is sad, he said, is not thinking in normal way. Is not a problem for me, but Imelda had felt bad all the same.

  Oh, she didn’t have the energy. Despite the distraction of Gualtiero, she was still torn apart by Hugh’s death, still heartbroken at her widowed state, still unable to think of much beyond getting through the next hour, the next day, without him.

  But her sleep had improved a little, which was something. And yesterday she’d picked up a book that had sat unopened by her bedside since the middle of May. She’d had to go back to the start, so completely forgotten was it – she’d begun it in another universe – and she’d managed only a page or so before losing heart, but it was another tiny step forward.

  ‘Imelda!’

  She turned, heart sinking. She’d chosen what she’d hoped was a quiet time to come and pick up a few bits and pieces in the supermarket, not wishing to meet anyone she knew – but here was Josephine Brown, of all people, bearing down on her. Josephine, who liked nothing better than to spread a story about, regardless of its content, unconcerned as to its truth or otherwise.

  She reached for Imelda’s arm, gave it a squeeze. ‘How are you doing, lovey?’ she asked, in the sympathy-laden voice that Imelda had come to dread. She shouldn’t resent it: she knew it was well-meant, in most cases – but God, how it was beginning to grate.

  ‘I’m alright, Josephine. I’m as good as I can be.’

  ‘Glad to hear it, that’s the spirit.’ Pause. ‘I heard you have a visitor.’

  Of course she’d heard. Josephine made it her business to hear, or overhear, just about everything that happened on the island.

  ‘I have a tenant, if that’s what you mean,’ Imelda replied stiffly. ‘I had no choice. It was arranged … a long time ago. He’s easy, he’s no trouble.’

  ‘But, Imelda, I heard he’s staying with you a whole month – that’s the last thing you need right now. I can’t imagine how hard that must be for you.’ Eyes flicking to Imelda’s basket as she spoke, checking out the Barry’s tea and the seeded batch loaf, the washing-up liquid and the toilet rolls. ‘How on earth will you manage, dear?’

  ‘I’ll manage fine,’ Imelda said crisply. ‘I must be getting on. Nell is expecting me.’ Whisking past Josephine, not caring if the woman was put out by her abrupt departure. Such liberation grief afforded, propriety gone with the wind.

  ‘How are you coping?’ Nell asked later, when the two of them were sitting in her kitchen. ‘How are you holding up?’

  Mother of two young children, shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair held back from her face with a silver clip, cream sandals on her feet. An apple tart in the oven, cloves and cinnamon floating around the room.

  ‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said, watching Berry unwrapping Imelda’s birthday present to her, which was considerably late. The child, whose vivacious character Hugh had particularly loved, pulled yellow paper away from the crayons and drawing pad that Imelda had found in the knick-knack section of the supermarket, knowing Nell wouldn’t care less what she’d spent. ‘What do you say to Imelda?’

  ‘Ta ta.’

  ‘You’re welcome, darling.’

  ‘You want to show them to Tommy?’ Nell asked, and off the child scooted to find her older brother, whom she pestered mercilessly any chance she got. Poor Tommy.

  ‘Susan is here,’ Nell said, when the patter of her feet had faded. ‘You remember Laura’s stepmother? She and her little boy Harry are staying in the hotel. She’s left her husband.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad.’

  But Imelda’s reply was automatic, as dutiful as the little girl’s thanks. How could she feel sympathy, when Susan’s husband was still alive and well? She’d met the woman a few times, she’d admired her polished good looks and her warmth – but that she’d chosen to leave her husband, her living, breathing husband, whatever the circumstances, was almost offensive to a mourning Imelda.

  ‘She’s talking of moving to London, Laura says. She’s got friends there.’

  Imelda had been to London once. A lifetime ago, with Cathy Coleman. They’d treated themselves to two nights in a hotel, basic but clean, in Wimbledon. It was the first time Imelda had seen baked beans on a breakfast plate. They’d got tickets for The Mousetrap, which they’d both agreed didn’t live up to its reputation. They’d visited Madame Tussaud’s and the Tate, and Cathy had climbed right to the top of St Paul’s Cathedral while Imelda, with her fear of cramped spaces, had turned back at the dome, and they’d taken photos of each other standing on Westminster Bridge, with Big Ben in the background.

  They’d stood for over an hour with the rest of the tourists outside Buckingham Palace, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Queen – She must be in there, Cathy had said, the flag is flying – but there had been no sign of her, and no changing of the guard either, since it was the wrong time, or the wrong day, Imelda couldn’t remember which. On their return to Ireland, Imelda’s sister had told her about a man she’d met at a dance called Vernon McCarthy. She remembered the two of them thinking his name very unusual – and now Imelda didn’t give it a second’s thought, so familiar had it become.

  ‘I saw Mr Conti a while ago,’ Nell said. ‘At least, I think it was him. Does he wear a straw hat and navy overalls, and is he a bit on the chubby side?’

  ‘Yes, that sounds like him.’

  ‘He was painting down by the pier. I sneaked a look when I was passing, but I couldn’t really make it out. How are you coping with him?’

  ‘He’s no trouble. I don’t see that much of him. He does his own breakfast, and he’s out most of the day.’ No need to mention their morning chats, which might be taken up the wrong way.

  ‘Well, that’s good. He’s been lucky with the weather. Will you hang on to him, do you think, or will I keep looking?’

  ‘I think I’ll manage, thanks Nell.’

  ‘And are you sleeping?’

  ‘… It’s improving a little.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. Why don’t you stay to dinner with us? It’s just shepherd’s pie, but we have plenty.’

  ‘I would, only I have a chop taken out of the freezer.’ The lie came effortlessly, she who would never have lied. She wasn’t ready for the bustle of a family dinner.

  Driving off, she caught sight of herself in the rear-view mirror; such a tidy-
up her hair needed. On Tuesday the fifteenth of May she’d been due to visit the salon for a cut: Nell 10.00, she’d written on the calendar that hung on the kitchen wall. By ten o’clock her house was full, Nell and James and Dr Jack and Father William and more, and someone was crying, and someone kept boiling the kettle, and someone was holding her hand, and life as she knew it had upended and broken into smithereens two hours earlier.

  As she passed the pier she spotted Gualtiero, positioned not too far from Andy’s ice-cream van. Standing by his easel but not painting, just staring out to sea. Was he thinking of his dead wife who’d been swallowed by another body of water? Maybe, she thought suddenly, that was why he always painted it. Maybe it helped him to feel closer to her.

  She hoped he got himself an ice-cream at some stage. Probably not a patch on the Italian stuff, but still.

  Laura

  ‘THE THING IS,’ TILLY SAID, LIFTING AN EGG FROM THE bubbling water, dropping it carefully into the yellow-spotted eggcup, ‘he’s not neglecting me. I mean, he’s never late to pick me up – you’ve seen that.’ She broke off as the kitchen door opened. ‘Ben, here’s Mrs Lindsay’s egg. Ask if they need more toast.’

  ‘And collect anything they’ve finished with on your way back,’ Laura called after him, pushing sausages aside in the pan, dropping in discs of white and black pudding. Poppy, seated at the table, gave a sudden cry of protest: Laura swung around. ‘Evie, leave your sister alone.’

  ‘She took my crayon!’

  ‘She’s only small, let her have it. You have lots. Not on the table, Poppy, only on the page.’

  ‘It’s not fair! You always let her take our stuff!’

  ‘Here,’ Marian said, ‘you can have one of mine, Evie.’

  Laura threw her a smile. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’ She’d kiss her when she had a minute.

  ‘It’s just,’ Tilly said, pouring away the water, ‘sometimes I wish, well, I wish he’d tell his friends to get lost. Does that sound awful?’