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

by Meaney, Roisin

  ‘I could kill her,’ she said. ‘Eve. She told me she was pregnant a few weeks ago. She made me swear to keep quiet. I didn’t know about Andy then; I only found that out later.’

  Gavin took this in. ‘You were good to her,’ he said, ‘when she was going through a lot. I’m not surprised she turned to you. Try not to be too hard on her.’

  ‘Gav, look what this will do to Tilly. Look what it’s doing to her. I know Eve went through some bad stuff, but it doesn’t let her off the hook here. And now Nell is mad at me too, because I’m not protesting Andy’s innocence with her.’

  Poppy’s birthday, she thought, in two days. Nell had promised to finish early at the salon and bring her two to the party. What were the chances of that happening now? Would she punish her children for Laura’s mistake?

  She’d worry about that when it came: there was other stuff to be sorted before then. ‘I’d better go and find Tilly,’ she said, feeling too tired for it. What in God’s name could she say to her sister that would offer the smallest comfort?

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I nearly forgot. There was a bit about your father on the radio just now.’

  Her father. Everything in her stood to attention. ‘What was it?’

  ‘Apparently he’s retiring.’

  Laura stared at him. ‘Retiring? From what?’

  ‘Painting, I assume. Only job he has, isn’t it?’

  Her father giving up painting? Couldn’t be true.

  And then she thought, yes it could.

  Did Susan know? She had to be told. This would bring her home; this would bring her back to him. ‘Where’s my phone?’

  ‘Behind you, on the worktop.’

  She placed the call. Susan answered on the third ring.

  ‘You’ve heard,’ Laura said.

  ‘Hi Laura. Yes, I’ve heard. I tried calling you earlier.’

  ‘Has he been in touch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He’s giving it up. He’s doing what you want.’

  Silence.

  ‘You’ll go back now, won’t you?’ No response. ‘Susan?’

  ‘It’s not that straightforward.’

  Laura opened her mouth – and closed it again. And opened it again. ‘Susan, this is his way of showing you he loves you. He’s giving up painting for you. This is the biggest thing he can do.’

  ‘Laura, I need to think about this, and you need to let me.’

  Laura had to tell her. She had to be told.

  She couldn’t tell her. She couldn’t break her word again. He’d never forgive her – and suddenly, that mattered.

  ‘I appreciate your concern,’ Susan said. ‘I do, honestly. But this is between Luke and me. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  And she had to be content with that, because Susan was right, it wasn’t her business. Except that she was involved: he’d involved her. After hanging up she dialled her father’s number. Quickly, before she could think better of it. She counted the rings until she heard his voicemail message. ‘This is me. I need to talk to you, it’s important. Will you ring me back as soon as you get this?’

  Would he? She wasn’t hopeful.

  She slipped her phone into her pocket. ‘Right. Tilly, and then bed. See you in a bit.’

  ‘I’ll be up soon,’ he said.

  She checked the sitting room and found it empty. She climbed the stairs and stood on the landing. The door to the room Tilly shared with the twins was ajar, but its light was off. She pushed it open a little wider and slipped quietly in, and waited for her eyes to adjust.

  There were the silent little humps of her daughters, asleep in their bunks behind the door – and there was Tilly on the far side of the room, at the chest of drawers. Laura glanced at the single bed and saw the open suitcase.

  ‘Tilly,’ she whispered, ‘what are you doing?’

  Tilly lifted clothing from a drawer and placed it in the case. ‘I’m packing.’

  ‘Well, I can see that, but—’

  ‘I’m leaving on the first ferry.’

  ‘What? Tomorrow? You can’t.’

  ‘I have to,’ Tilly whispered fiercely. ‘How can I stay here, with him living next door?’ A sob caught in her throat, caused a hiccup in her breath.

  Laura moved closer. ‘Tilly, please, this is crazy. Your flight isn’t until Saturday. Where will you go if you leave tomorrow?’

  ‘I don’t care. Away from here.’

  ‘Look, we’ll talk about it in the morning, OK?’

  ‘I’m going. You can’t stop me.’

  ‘But you don’t know anyone off the island. I can’t let you leave like this. Please don’t.’

  Tilly lifted the case and set it on the floor by the end of the bed. Without a word, she left the room. Laura waited until she returned with her toilet bag and dropped it with a small soft thump into the case. Even in the near darkness, the misery on her face was plain to see.

  ‘This is crazy,’ Laura repeated. ‘I can’t let you go.’

  ‘You must.’ She sat on the bed and pulled off her shoes. She turned back the duvet and climbed in, still fully clothed, and rolled over to face the wall.

  Laura remained where she was. How could Tilly leave a day early? How could Laura let her go?

  How could she stop her? At nineteen, Tilly was an adult, not a minor in Laura’s care – and with Andy living in such close proximity, could she blame the girl for wanting to flee? But the idea of her heading off on her own was unnerving. What if something happened to her? What if her parents, her adoptive parents, got in touch on Monday to say she’d never arrived home?

  The first ferry left at eight in the morning. Laura would somehow have to persuade her to stay before that.

  ‘Goodnight,’ she whispered – and when there was no reaction she left the room and pulled the door closed. She checked on the boys and found them in bed reading comics.

  Poppy was asleep in her parents’ room, in the fold-up bed they hauled out of storage whenever Tilly was due. Laura regarded her daughter’s sleeping face in the soft light of the little minion lamp that Poppy insisted be left on at bedtime – a present last Christmas from her godmother Nell.

  Would Nell cut off contact with them all now? Would she look the other way when they encountered one another on the road? Would she forbid her children to play with Laura’s?

  Laura couldn’t think about it, couldn’t countenance it. Instead she feasted on the sight of Poppy’s half-open mouth, the flush in her plump cheeks, the trusting, defenceless look of her. Three years old on Saturday, her ice-cream cake already bought and waiting in the freezer.

  In the en suite Laura washed her face and brushed her teeth. She slipped off her clothes, leaving them where they fell, and pulled on Gavin’s old grey T-shirt that served her as a nightie. She climbed into bed and closed her eyes and tried not to think about the morning, and what might lie ahead for all of them.

  Imelda

  ‘WE’D BETTER GO,’ SHE SAID.

  It was a quarter to eight. Her body felt sluggish with tiredness. She’d had one of her bad nights, drifting in and out of sleep, her subconscious, when it took over, throwing up muddied unconnected images: Hugh on a ladder, smiling down at her; her brother-in-law bent over a crossword puzzle; her sister in a navy suit, standing on the steps of Roone’s church; Imelda herself piping white icing onto a cake.

  In her waking moments, when her clock-radio was showing one and two in the morning, she’d heard more than a few cars passing outside. They’d puzzled her – where could they be going at that time? – until she remembered the big party at the hotel. She hoped it had gone well. She was fond of Henry, who’d been so welcoming in her early days on Roone. Looks like Hugh held out for the best, he’d said once. Such a lovely remark to make.

  Trying to return to sleep, her thoughts had drifted towards Eve, as they often had of late. She missed her. She hoped she was eating properly. Her last sighting of her had been from Nell’s salon, two weeks earlier: in the act of puttin
g on her jacket, she’d glanced out of the window and seen Eve about to enter the fish shop across the street. She’d lifted a hand to rap on the window and had lowered it again, afraid she might be seen, and ignored.

  She might return to Imelda, once she heard Gualtiero had gone home.

  ‘I wish to thank you very much, Eemelda,’ he said. ‘Is very sad time for you, but you were very kind for me.’

  ‘I was glad to be able to do it,’ Imelda replied. ‘It was good to have someone in the house.’ They were driving to the ferry. They passed the little white gate that led to the holy well. She approached a bend, and slowed. ‘I’m sorry you never met Hugh. I think – I know you would have liked him.’

  ‘Yes, I am sure.’

  She drove by Fennessy’s, with a clothes-line full of billowing sheets at the side of the house. Clancy’s, Regan’s, a field of sheep, another of cattle. The primary school, where Nell’s father had worked for years as principal, a basketball hoop, just one, in the front yard. It always struck her as a shame that they didn’t have two, so the children could have a proper game.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ Gualtiero said, ‘I will be in my restaurant again.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you’ll be happy to be back.’

  She pictured him in the lovely courtyard, stopping by tables to talk to his customers; or maybe in the kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans. A light mist began to fall, settling silently on the windscreen, the first rain they’d had in weeks. He’d been so blessed with the weather.

  ‘How long,’ she asked, ‘before your paintings arrive?’ He’d brought the bulk of them to the island post office a few days earlier, over a dozen, and arranged to have them shipped back to Italy.

  He shrugged. ‘One month, maybe more. Is not important when they come: I ’ave everything inside.’ He tapped his chest.

  She understood. When she’d left Roone after her first holiday there, the island had remained with her. It wasn’t just that she could close her eyes and picture the village street, the little pebble beach, the coast road edged with bushes of drooping fuchsia and slanting sheaves of montbretia. It was more than that. It was almost as if she could feel the fine mist of salt spray carried on every breeze, could inhale the clean briny air that permeated every nook of the island. The low musical song of the sea in the bay was the undercurrent to her thoughts, the sharp cries of the gulls overhead dipping into her empty moments. Once it got under your skin, Roone was a hard place to forget. Roone picks its people, Hugh had said to her once – and she believed it, and felt like she had been picked.

  ‘You might come back,’ she said lightly. ‘I’d be happy for you to stay again, if you wanted.’ Glancing his way, seeing the smile her remark generated.

  ‘Grazie, Eemelda. I would like very much to return. And perhaps you will come to see my restaurant some day.’

  ‘That would be lovely. You’re an excellent cook.’

  He’d presented them with a fish stew, four nights ago when Nell had come to dinner. Chunks of sea bass, monkfish and sole in a rich sauce of red wine, tomatoes, garlic and chilli, poured over slices of bread that he’d rubbed with more garlic. They’d had seconds.

  ‘So,’ she said, as the pier hove into view, ‘who will collect you at the airport in Rome?’

  ‘Collect?’

  ‘Who will come for you?’

  ‘I will take the train, and then the bus,’ he declared. ‘Paolo will be busy in the restaurant.’

  He’d be on home turf in Rome, easily able to navigate from the airport, but still she felt sad at the thought of nobody meeting him. It was no mean feat getting from Roone to Dublin airport without a car: a bus from the mainland to Tralee, a train from there to Mallow, another to Dublin, a second bus from the station to the airport. He’d be worn out before he left Ireland.

  ‘If you come back,’ she said, ‘you must fly to Kerry airport, from Dublin or London. It would make it easier for you.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I will do that.’

  It was a friendship, no more. She didn’t expect or want anything more. But a little trip to Italy, maybe a long weekend, was certainly appealing. She wouldn’t rule it out in a year or two, when she wasn’t so broken. It might help her to heal. It might go some way towards fixing her heart.

  As she pulled in at the pier, she saw Gavin’s white van parked a short way down the road. Dropping guests maybe, or collecting an early arrival. The ferry was docked, about to make its first trip of the day.

  She halted by the ice-cream van, its shutters down until later. ‘I won’t wait,’ she told Gualtiero. ‘You don’t mind?’ Conscious still of wagging tongues, even at this early hour. Hating goodbyes anyway, always wanting them over as quickly as possible.

  ‘Of course.’ He took his case from the boot as she opened her door and stood by it, shielded from the short line of vehicles waiting to board. He came to her and placed his hands on her arms and kissed her on both cheeks, bringing his scent with him. ‘Eemelda, thank you for all. Grazie mille per tutti, Eemelda. Arrivederci.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Safe trip, and thank you, Gualtiero,’ stupidly feeling yet again the threat of tears. These days, anything at all could set her off. She climbed back into the car and pressed the heels of her hands briefly to her eye sockets. She watched him walk towards the boat, pulling the case behind him, his straw hat, a little more battered now, held in his free hand.

  When he had passed out of sight she turned the car around and drove home, sadness settling heavily around her again. In the kitchen she turned on the radio and washed their breakfast dishes as a female singer sang about the wonder of a first kiss, the heaven of a first night. She opened the fridge to return the milk and butter, and she saw the olives and cheese and sundried tomatoes and anchovies that she hadn’t bought, and the remains of the streaky bacon she’d cooked for his last evening on Roone.

  She left the dishes to drain and went into the sitting room to open the curtains and check for forgotten cups – and there, lying on the coffee table, she found his gift.

  To Imelda, he had written in the accompanying folded note, to say thank you from your friend Gualtiero.

  It was the scene he’d painted in her back garden of the little Tuscan beach where he and his family used to holiday, and the island of Elba sitting out on the horizon, squat and long and black. It was on canvas, about eighteen inches wide and a foot high.

  She picked it up. She sat on the couch and held it at arm’s length and gazed at it. She brought it closer and traced the bumps where he’d loaded up the paint for the wave crests, and the black boulders that rose from the sea. She’d talk to James about getting a frame for it. She’d hang it in the hall, so it would be the first thing visitors saw.

  And just then she heard the sound of the kitchen door opening, and someone entering the hall.

  She froze. The back door was unlocked, like it always was during the day. Crime was rare on Roone, but not unheard of. She waited, gripping the painting, for whoever it was to find her.

  ‘Imelda?’

  Eve: thank God. ‘In here,’ she said, and Eve’s face appeared.

  ‘You gave me a fright,’ Imelda said, setting the painting aside, getting to her feet. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone so early.’ Not moving towards her, not yet – but she would forgive, of course, even if no apology was offered.

  ‘Sorry. I figured you’d be up.’ She hovered in the doorway. She was very pale; the skin beneath her eyes was tinged with grey. Her face was bare of makeup, her hair pulled into a ponytail that draped over a shoulder. ‘Is the man … still here?’

  The man. ‘No – I just dropped him to the ferry. Have you eaten, dear? Have you had breakfast?’

  ‘Imelda,’ Eve said, a hand going up to clutch the end of her ponytail. ‘Imelda,’ she said again, mouth trembling, the colour rising quickly in her cheeks, washing away the white. ‘I – I have something – there’s something I have to – to tell you.’

  Bad news, it had to be. Imelda felt
goose pimples rising on her arms. ‘What is it, Eve? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I – Imelda, I’m so sorry,’ she said, eyes brimming. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen, honest to God, I swear I didn’t do it on purpose,’ the words galloping out as fast as the tears that were spilling over now and racing down her cheeks.

  ‘Eve, please, you must tell me. What’s happened? What have you done?’ Possibilities raced through her head – something illegal, drugs, something that had caused injury, or worse, to another person. ‘Tell me,’ she repeated, and Eve cried out that she was pregnant, and that she was so sorry, and that she’d give anything for it not to be true.

  Pregnant.

  Eve was pregnant.

  Imelda resumed her seat, slowly and carefully. ‘Well,’ she said, and couldn’t think of another thing.

  Eve, pregnant. Eve, storming out of the house not once but twice. Being inexplicably rude to Gualtiero. Avoiding Imelda, ignoring her calls. It began to make some kind of sense. Pregnant and afraid, and keeping her distance or lashing out, because it was easier than voicing her fears.

  ‘Sit down,’ she said, shifting the painting to the coffee table to make room – but instead Eve took Hugh’s armchair by the empty fireplace. She sat all huddled together on the edge of it, head bowed, shoulders hunched, hands gripping her knees. Waiting, Imelda knew, for her reaction.

  She looked again at Gualtiero’s beautiful gift, the sandy cove and the colourful houses, the sea and the island. She thought about the man who had created it, who should be on the bus by now that would take him to Tralee, and on a plane a few hours later that would carry him back to his life in Italy.

  That was the thing about time, she thought. It kept moving forward, kept pulling everyone along with it, regardless of circumstances. A person might lose a job, another a house, another a beloved child or partner: none of it mattered a jot to Time. Come along, it said. Keep up. Forever moving things forward, putting more and more distance between people and the sorrows that had been visited upon them – which, when you thought about it, was probably the kindest thing it could do.