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

by Meaney, Roisin

  ‘I feel angry a lot of the time now. I’m sad, of course, I’m very, very sad, but I’m so angry too that we had such a short time together. Why couldn’t we have met when we were younger, or why couldn’t he have lived longer? I don’t understand why things like that happen. It doesn’t seem fair …

  ‘After he died I found myself looking at couples, people I knew who were happily married, and I felt – resentful of their happiness, jealous of what they had. I’m ashamed to say it. I’m still a bit …’

  He probably didn’t understand much of what she said, and maybe it was just as well – and really, it didn’t matter. He listened in silence as it emerged slowly from her. He allowed her to talk and didn’t interrupt. She hadn’t been able to speak like this to anyone, not to her sister, or Nell, or Eve. It was such a relief to give voice to all that was churning around in her head, to say it aloud to someone who demanded nothing of her, expected nothing of her.

  When she ran out of words they sat in easy silence as birds flitted and fussed in the tree, as a breeze tapped leaves softly against one another, as the ferry horn sounded distantly. Imelda directed her gaze at the old house where she’d spent her happiest years, and wondered if she would ever feel such happiness again. It didn’t seem remotely possible – but for the first time she acknowledged that maybe, one day, it might be.

  Oh, not the happiness she’d known with Hugh, not the fierce bubbling excitement of their first weeks, when they were getting to know everything about one another, when love was sprouting and spreading and colouring all her days. Not the deeper joy they’d found later in the months and years of their marriage, not that, never that again – but maybe she’d find a gentler contentment. Maybe she’d be blessed with that, somewhere in the future.

  She’d thought her life had ended, the morning she’d woken to find him gone – but only a part of it had ended. The happiest part, certainly, but the rest of it had gone on, was going on, whether she wanted it to or not. It would go on until it was her turn to die, and all she could hope for was that it would get easier to face each new day, easier to live with the absence of her soulmate.

  Eventually she got to her feet, gathering plates and cups and apologising for talking so much, and he waved away her apology and resumed his painting. And for the rest of that day, as she baked new loaves of brown bread – he got through an astonishing amount of it each morning – and hung clothes on the line and brought them in again, and read a little more of her book, and finally found herself able to return to the crossword she and Hugh had been halfway through, as the day passed in this fashion, with the small tasks that used up the minutes and the hours, she felt a sort of calming within her, a small tamping down of her rage.

  The following morning, as they breakfasted together – somewhere along the way, their separate morning schedules had dovetailed – as he was topping up their coffee from the cafetière, she gave voice to an idea that had come to her in the night. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘I could ask my niece – Hugh’s niece – to dinner some evening this week, and you could meet her. I was wondering if you would like that.’

  She was still wary of appearing in public with him, but Nell could come here, couldn’t she? Nell, she knew, would like to meet him – and she’d be someone else for him to talk to. The thought of inviting anyone to dinner hadn’t crossed her mind since Hugh’s death, but Nell didn’t really count. Nell was aware of the situation with Gualtiero, how Imelda had had little choice but to keep him. Nell wouldn’t judge, wouldn’t read anything into it that wasn’t there. And James, she was sure, wouldn’t mind being left out.

  ‘I would like that,’ he said, ‘and I would be ’appy to cook for you, if you like.’

  She opened her mouth to protest – he was the visitor – and then she thought how nice it would be to have a trained chef taking care of the menu. ‘Something simple,’ she said. ‘Don’t go to any trouble. And only if I can get the ingredients.’

  It was nearly his last week. She couldn’t believe how quickly his month had passed. It seemed like no time since she’d come home to find the green suitcase on the doorstep, and yet just eight days from now he was leaving.

  After he’d departed for his day of painting, ready to resume his normal routine, she washed the dishes and swept the floor. As she did so, she found the restaurant courtyard returning to her mind’s eye. She could imagine being there on a warm evening, the sky blazing with stars, the air redolent with jasmine, and aromas from the various dishes. Some aria playing in the background, maybe, given his taste for opera, and pleasant spatters of conversation drifting from nearby tables. She’d always considered Italian a beautifully lyrical language.

  They should have travelled more, she and Hugh. They’d planned to – or at least they’d talked about it. Rome had been on their list, and the Cotswolds, and the Austrian Alps. They should have done it when he’d promoted James to pub manager a few years ago, and cut down on his own hours. They should have booked air tickets and hotels and just gone. They should have made so many memories.

  At length she left the kitchen and wandered out to the patio, where Gualtiero’s work from his two days in the garden, a small seascape, rested on the table, propped against Imelda’s citronella candle. Our place for ’oliday, he’d told her, when the boys are small. We go every year in the summer for two week. Is in Toscana, near to the island of Elba, where was put Napoleon.

  This painting was different from the others. This one was more structured, less chaotic, but every bit as colourful. There was a small sandy cove, seaweed-strewn and flanked by hills on which pretty pastel houses huddled together, as if holding one another up. Below a sky that was streaked with violet and yellow and orange and pink, the sun having presumably just slid out of sight, the sea was a darkening green, splashed with all the sunset shades, while Elba lay long and low on the horizon, putting Imelda in mind of how Roone looked from the mainland.

  She’d miss him, no point in denying it. She’d miss his company, the sound of him cooking his evening meal in the kitchen, his scent left behind on the stairs, his green case sitting in the hall each evening. The house would feel emptier without him, particularly as there had been no further sign of Eve since her one and only encounter with him.

  She wiped her hands and went to phone Nell.

  AUGUST

  Tilly

  IT REMINDED HER OF HER FIRST, AND SO FAR ONLY, Christmas Day on Roone. It put her in mind of the crowd gathered around the kitchen table for dinner, just enough space for them all. Laura and Gavin and the children, and Gavin’s mother, who’d died just days after, and an American man, a refugee from the island hotel whose roof had been damaged in the storm of the day before, and Tilly, newly arrived from Australia. Ten of them if you counted Poppy, then just a baby on a lap.

  This evening’s gathering was different, of course. For one thing the children were missing, having been fed earlier. The three girls were in bed, the boys watching television in the sitting room. Around the table in their stead were Nell and James, and Lelia from the café and her husband who owned the ice-cream van, and whose name, Pádraig, Tilly avoided using, because it never sounded right when she said it.

  There was also the Italian man from Imelda’s house, and a friendly Canadian couple who happened to be staying in the B&B, and whom Laura had invited on impulse that morning. Imelda had been invited too but she’d said no, which was probably just as well, because with Andy and Tilly it came to eleven around the table, which was definitely as many adults as would fit with any degree of comfort.

  This wasn’t remotely like Laura’s birthday parties of the previous two years, which had taken place officially in the sitting room, but which had on both occasions overflowed into the hall and kitchen, and halfway up the stairs. B&B guests were invited so they couldn’t complain about the noise, along with what looked like half of the Roone population. Baskets of cocktail sausages and chicken wings were circulated, wine glasses were kept filled. The cake was cut, the
presents opened, and music and general merriment went on until the small hours. Laura’s parties had gained a reputation, and invitations were coveted.

  This was far more civilised, but none the less enjoyable, Tilly thought. Candles flickered; conversation was muted and easy. They’d eaten a starter of dates stuffed with feta and wrapped in bacon whose recipe Tilly had found online, and followed it with homemade pizza and a salad of lettuce, spinach and rocket from Gavin’s garden, tossed in Laura’s special dressing of mint and honey, lemon juice and wholegrain mustard.

  The cake awaited, a coffee and walnut beauty that Lelia had brought along as her gift. Tilly wondered if it was time to produce it. She looked to the top of the table where her sister sat, hoping to catch her eye – and was taken aback by the expression she caught on Laura’s face.

  Momentarily left unattended, the Italian man next to her having turned to address a remark to the Canadian wife, Gavin on her other side chatting to Lelia, Laura’s mouth was set, her eyes narrowed and cold, as if what she was seeing greatly offended or repulsed her.

  Tilly followed her line of sight, wondering what on earth could have prompted such a look – and arrived at Andy, seated directly across the table from her.

  Andy? Could he really be the target? It certainly looked like Laura had him in her sights. Why, though? What could possibly have prompted such apparent ill feeling towards him? Could she be mad at him on Tilly’s behalf, following their recent conversation? Could she resent him for falling short of Tilly’s expectations? Surely not. She might be annoyed, but not angry. She wouldn’t look at him as if she hated him.

  Tilly shot another glance at Laura and saw her talking again with the Italian, her usual smile reinstated. She must have imagined the other, must have mistaken it for tiredness.

  She turned back to Andy. ‘How’re you doing?’

  ‘I’m having the craic,’ he said, knowing the expression would make her smile.

  It wasn’t really his scene, this kind of gathering. He’d have more fun tomorrow night, at the big hotel birthday party. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘No worries, it’s good. At least I’m getting well fed.’

  She pushed back her chair. ‘And there’s more to come.’

  In the scullery she lit the three candles they’d stuck into the cake and brought it back to the kitchen – and while Gavin was wondering aloud if it was time for the birthday bumps, and the Canadian husband was offering his help if needed, and Laura was threatening to evict him and his wife that very minute if he dared, Tilly stood by, waiting to distribute slices, and thought, Three more days.

  Since the picnic she’d been taking things as they came. She hadn’t suggested another afternoon or evening on their own, and neither had he. Laura clearly didn’t hold out much hope for them, but Tilly knew she was mistaken. Laura was playing safe, not wanting Tilly to be hurt. It was understandable – but she was wrong.

  She and Andy were still seeing one another every day, still spending a great deal of time together. It was all good, and really his friends were lovely, and she was determined to make the very most of what time she had left with him.

  And then, the very next day, the row happened.

  It came out of nowhere – or maybe it didn’t. Maybe it arose from the disappointment that lay beneath her vow to remain cheerful and patient. Maybe it was a product of her frustration, and a quiet anxiety that she was doing her best to ignore. Maybe it didn’t come out of nowhere at all; maybe it was more that she didn’t see it coming.

  It was the middle of the afternoon. They were in the van, dealing with the usual orders, chatting in the breaks between customers. Everything was fine until a girl appeared and asked for a 99.

  Tilly knew her slightly. She was the younger sister of Frog Hackett, around Tilly’s own age, but she didn’t mix much with her brother’s crowd. Curly dark hair, jade-green eyeliner. Denim shorts with frayed ends, exposing her rather hefty legs.

  ‘Going to the party tonight?’ she asked Andy, as he filled the cone, watching him turn it slowly under the feed so the ice-cream coiled in.

  ‘Yeah, we’ll be there.’

  ‘Hardly be as good as Frog’s, though.’ This remark was accompanied by a wink, directed at Tilly. ‘We all had a ball that night,’ the girl told her. ‘Some of us had a bit too much of a ball.’

  Andy laughed. ‘Ah now, Rachel, don’t be trying to stir it.’ He stuck a flake into the cone and passed it over. ‘Two euro to you,’ he said, although 99s were two fifty.

  ‘Thanks Andy – see you later.’

  The exchange left Tilly feeling mildly irritated. That party again. She watched Frog’s sister vanish from sight. She yawned and rubbed her eyes.

  ‘You should go home, have a lie-down,’ he said – and for some reason, the remark only served to ignite her irritation. She’d go home if she felt like it, not when someone told her to.

  She shifted weight from one hip to the other and folded her arms. ‘So who exactly will be there tonight?’

  He wiped the end of the ice-cream nozzle. He ran the tap in the van’s little sink, held his cloth under the flow and squeezed it out. ‘I told you, everyone. The whole island is invited.’

  ‘No – I mean which of your friends? Which of the usual suspects?’

  He gave her a quizzical smile. ‘They’ll all be there. Why wouldn’t they?’

  And that was where it stopped being just a casual conversation. That was where it all came pouring out, like the ice-cream.

  ‘I never get you on your own,’ she said, silencing the voice that urged her to be quiet, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. ‘You never seem to want us to be alone. I feel like I’m the only one who cares about us.’

  He looked at her in what appeared to be genuine astonishment. ‘I thought you liked my friends,’ he said, which was all she needed to let fly, to round on him.

  ‘That’s not the point! That’s not what I’m saying at all! Of course I like your friends. They’re not the problem – you are! Have you any idea how much I miss you when we’re apart, and how much I look forward to coming over here and seeing you again? And then when I get here, you don’t seem to care that we’re always, always surrounded by people – do you even want to keep going out with me?’ she demanded, before she could stop herself – and of course just then another pair of customers arrived, and Andy turned away to serve them, giving her lots of time to cool down, which she tried to do.

  It felt good, she realised, to let it out. She should have done it sooner. Her concerns needed to be stated, even if it meant a row. It would clear the air between them; it would make him realise that she deserved more of his attention.

  Except it didn’t quite work out that way.

  ‘Tilly,’ he said, when they were alone again, ‘I don’t know where this is coming from. I thought you were having a good time here. I don’t see my friends too often when I’m away in college, so I like to catch up with them when I’m home.’

  And that, unfortunately, was all she needed to blow up again. ‘You don’t see your friends too often? You don’t see me at all! I’m on the other side of the bloody world, apart from a few weeks in the summer! I’m beginning to feel like you wish I hadn’t come!’

  ‘Oh, come on – you know that’s not true. I’ve said often enough that I’m glad you’re here.’

  ‘Well then, why am I the only one who wants a bit of time on our own? I was the one who organised that picnic last week – no, two weeks ago. That’s really the only time we haven’t been surrounded by your friends or our families.’

  ‘We had that walk the other day—’

  ‘That walk? Whoop de doo, a whole half an hour to ourselves!’

  ‘And that time we went to the beach—’

  ‘Yes, and along came your ex, trying to cause trouble! That was a really lovely morning!’

  And on they went, she attacking, he defending – and in the end, seeing a new group approach the van,
Tilly stomped off, telling him she didn’t want to go to the stupid party anyway, and he didn’t call after her.

  And of course she very much wanted to go to the stupid party, but two hours later he hadn’t phoned, and it looked like she was stuck inside for the evening on her own, because the entire family, even Poppy, was going.

  Laura had shown a disappointing lack of sympathy when Tilly had reported what had happened. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it; rows are part of any relationship. It’s healthy to get things off your chest once in a while. You’ll make up soon enough.’

  ‘Soon enough? I’m going home in two days!’

  ‘So you’ll just have to make up before that.’

  No sympathy at all. Glad, probably, that they’d fallen out. The more Tilly thought about it, the more she regretted her outburst. She replayed it in her head, and heard how needy and demanding she’d sounded – wasn’t that a sure way to lose him?

  At dinnertime she poked at her shepherd’s pie, forcing down no more than a few mouthfuls. Afterwards she tidied up and mopped the kitchen floor, full of gloom, while everyone changed into party wear. Every so often she couldn’t resist pulling out her phone and checking for a message that she knew wouldn’t be there.

  The party, now that she wasn’t planning to attend it, took on a new significance. She’d seen the bunting, and the big white tent. It would probably be completely wonderful, and she’d miss it all.

  At a quarter to seven, the others set off. ‘You won’t change your mind and come with us?’ Laura asked, and Tilly said no, although it killed her. After they’d left she wandered dispiritedly through the downstairs rooms, finding a forgotten plate in the sitting room, tweaking a tablecloth straight in the breakfast room.

  Laura was wrong: they wouldn’t make up. Tilly had ruined everything. She imagined him at the party, chatting to other girls – girls he could see anytime he chose – and she wanted to cry. Seven o’clock came, and half past, and eight o’clock. The others would surely be home soon, the girls needing to be put to bed. From time to time she heard guests letting themselves in and going upstairs.