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

by Meaney, Roisin

  In the morning, as soon as it got light, she’d made toast and drunk milk, not wanting to mess up the fancy coffee machine, and unable to find instant. She’d torn a page from her diary and written him a note, and left it on the kitchen counter.

  Thank you for letting me stay. I’m glad we met. I’ll write from Australia, and I would love if you wrote back.

  Tilly, she signed it, and added two kisses, because she’d be gone when he saw them.

  Maybe he would write back, next time she sent him a letter. The world had a way of surprising you.

  ‘I’ll call you tomorrow after work,’ Lien promised. ‘We’ll get together at the weekend. Try not to think about it.’

  Easier said than done. She wished she’d never set eyes on the island, or anyone living there. She’d survived fine without Laura, before discovering she had a sister. If only she’d never learnt that she was adopted, never gone looking for her birth mother.

  If she could rewind it all, if she could go back to a time before she’d walked past a house and seen a blue-eyed Irish boy shovelling snow from the path outside it. But there was no rewinding, just pushing on. Probably just as well, or everyone would be fixing mistakes and changing course, and things would get mighty complicated.

  ‘Tilly!’ Robbie’s high-pitched voice hollered up at her from the bottom of the stairs. ‘Supper’s ready!’

  She went down and ate what she could of the meat pie, and fielded the careful questions that came across the table at her. They knew something was up, of course they did. She hadn’t told them about Andy – at least, they’d known a boy was on the scene, she’d felt obliged to let Ma in on that much, but they hadn’t got the full story. They didn’t know she’d fallen in love, they didn’t know she’d planned to—

  Stop. Don’t.

  Back in her room she brushed her teeth and changed into pyjamas and opened her laptop. She’d watch Netflix, take her mind off everything with a movie until she got tired enough for bed. She was starting back in the restaurant tomorrow afternoon, which she was glad of, but she’d need a proper night’s sleep before she could pretend, for eight hours, to be happy.

  She logged on. New message pinged onto her screen. She opened her inbox and saw it was from Andy.

  She sank her head into her hands.

  She couldn’t.

  She couldn’t not. She had to.

  She sat up. She clicked on the message and it sprang onto her screen.

  Tilly

  I’m not sure if this will come out right, but I hope it will. I hope you’ll read it too, but that’s up to you.

  You know I’ve tried to call you loads of times over the past few days, and you haven’t picked up. Well, now I’m thinking it was probably just as well, because it gave us both time to really get our heads around everything, and to figure out what it means for us.

  Let me start by telling you what happened – on the night of Frog’s party, I mean. A few of us left together, but by the time we got to Eve’s apartment the others had gone off in different directions, and it was just the two of us. We’d both had a fair bit to drink, but I remember everything. We went in and I made coffee, although she said she didn’t want any. She was crying about Hugh, and already half asleep by the time I left.

  I didn’t see much of her after that. She wasn’t around a lot. I figured she was still cut up about Hugh – and anytime we did meet, there were always others there. To be honest, I’d completely forgotten about that night by the time you arrived.

  Now here’s the thing. Yesterday Imelda called – Eve’s old foster mother – and she told us that Eve isn’t pregnant, and never was. She had a false pregnancy or something. It sounds totally weird and I don’t understand it, but it’s a thing. I looked it up and it does exist.

  I tried to tell you nothing happened, but you didn’t listen. In a way I don’t blame you, because often when a woman accuses a man of making her pregnant, it’s true. It’s just that it wasn’t true in this case.

  I’m sorry you left Roone before you were supposed to. I’m sorry you went away hating me, but at least now you know the truth. Maybe I shouldn’t have walked Eve home, but she meant a lot to me once, and she was still a friend, and I thought she needed someone to look after her that night. Not that I was in a much better state than her, but I was a bit more sober.

  It would have been nice if you’d trusted me more. It hurt that you didn’t give me a chance to tell you my side, but like I say, I do understand. I think part of the reason you believed her was because you weren’t sure how I felt about you, or whether I felt enough. I get it, and now that all of this has happened, it’s time to tell the truth about that too.

  I really like you, I think you know that, but I don’t love you the way I loved Eve. I’m sorry to hurt you like this. I’ve been a coward. I knew how you felt about me, and I wanted to feel the same but I didn’t, and I didn’t know how to tell you, so I avoided it. I knew you wanted more time on our own this summer, but I kept bringing you out with my friends, because I thought you might ask questions I couldn’t answer if we were alone. That time we went on the picnic I waited for you to say something, to ask me how I really felt about you, and I was relieved when you didn’t.

  I’m really sorry. I’m sorry it took something as awful as Thursday night to get me to say what I should have said ages ago. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you wanted me to be. I’m sorry I let it go on so long.

  I hope you can forgive me, but I’ll understand if I don’t hear from you again. I hope you won’t let it stop you coming back to Roone. I would like us to stay friends, and I know Laura and her family would hate for you not to come back. And whether you believe it or not, I did enjoy the time we spent together. You’re a cool person. Andy xx

  Long after she had finished reading it, she remained staring at the screen, too numb to move. Trying to take it all in, trying to sort it out in her head.

  Eve wasn’t pregnant.

  He hadn’t been unfaithful.

  She’d wronged him: she hadn’t given him a chance to deny the charge. Not that it mattered, now that they were over.

  They were over.

  They were really over.

  Tears poured down her face, and she let them. They were hot and bitter, full of the hurt and the pain and the humiliation that had been festering inside her since Thursday evening.

  At least now she knew where she stood. It didn’t help much; it didn’t really help at all. Knowing where she stood didn’t lessen the pain, all it stopped was the uncertainty. She’d never be Mrs Andy Baker, never have a van selling hot food, or cold food, or any kind of food, at the end of the village street. She’d never write her book looking out at the sea that washed around the island.

  It was finished. All of that was finished.

  I don’t love you the way I loved Eve – God, how that stung, how that sliced into her like a sharpened knife. I would like us to stay friends. No chance. That wasn’t going to happen. Next summer she’d stay at home, or maybe take a trip with Lien, who was always saying she’d love to visit New Zealand.

  But she would go back to Roone sometime. She wouldn’t allow him to deny her that. She’d go back, maybe the year after next, and stay again at Walter’s Place. She’d say hello when they met, and move on. She wouldn’t be his friend. That wouldn’t happen.

  She selected all of his emails and deleted them, and removed him from her contact list. She wiped his number from her phone, and binned his WhatsApp and text messages. She tore her photos of him, and her photos of them, into tiny squares and dropped them into her wastepaper basket. She erased as much of him as she could, crying all the way.

  She’d get over it. The logical side of her brain knew that. She wasn’t twenty yet: time was on her side. She’d throw herself into work, and she’d go back to cycling in the mornings, and on her days off. She used to love cycling. She’d fill her head with new stuff to replace him. There would come a day when it didn’t hurt any more, or not anything like it
hurt now.

  When nothing of him was left she blotted her face dry and opened Netflix, and began the business of forgetting him.

  Eve

  LYING IN BED, WATCHING DAYS TURN TO NIGHTS AND back again, she’d figured out a lot of things.

  She’d wanted the pregnancy to be real. She hadn’t realised how badly she’d wanted that. She’d wanted to be carrying Andy Baker’s child because she was still in love with Andy Baker.

  She’d finished with him because of Derek Garvey, who had damaged her in a way that made her feel she wasn’t worthy of being loved. She’d convinced herself that she wasn’t good enough for Andy. She’d been frightened of her feelings for him, frightened he’d discover how worthless she was, and leave her, and break her, so she’d called a halt to their relationship before any of that could happen.

  She hadn’t stopped loving him. Not for a minute.

  She still didn’t understand how she could have believed herself to be pregnant when she wasn’t. It had felt so real. All the signs had been there. How could the entire thing have been in her head? Dr Jack, when Imelda had handed her the phone, had been gentle – and pretty useless. We’re not entirely sure why it happens, he’d said, but it can often be as a result of some trauma – and Eve had known he was talking about Derek, and yes, maybe Mam too. Maybe Mam had played her part.

  Come and talk to me when you feel able, he’d said, and we can discuss it further, whatever that meant. When will my periods come back? she’d asked, and he’d said it would depend on how quickly she recovered, which had told her nothing much either.

  So now she had to try to recover – and to help that along, Imelda was taking her to Italy.

  She didn’t deserve it. The last thing she deserved was a holiday, but all the same they’d booked flights and a hotel, and this time tomorrow they’d be there. She could put all this aside, even if it was only for six days.

  It wasn’t over. It was far from over. Earlier her phone had rung, and she’d seen Veronica D on the display, and her heart had sunk. Veronica Delaney was head of the island committee, and the call wasn’t unexpected – Eve had wondered why they hadn’t been in touch before now – but it was certainly unwelcome.

  Hello?

  Is that Eve? The brusque tone. Pure Veronica.

  Yes.

  Eve, it’s Veronica. I’m sure you know why I’m ringing. We’re very disturbed by what we’re hearing. We need to have a word with you as soon as possible.

  Eve had explained that she was going away, and a date had been arranged for the following week. She’d be hauled before them and cross-examined – or maybe they’d skip the questioning and sack her on the spot. She prayed that wouldn’t happen: she loved working at the crèche. She hoped they’d give her a chance to explain, and feel some sympathy for her, but the hope was faint. She’d got drunk enough not to remember the events of an evening, and then she’d conjured up a pregnancy. She suspected it wouldn’t end with them handing her tea and a biscuit, and telling her all was forgiven.

  There was one thing at least that she’d done, or tried to do, to make some kind of amends. Right after the call from Veronica, before she could lose her nerve, she’d pressed the number for the hotel, and held her breath until the phone had been picked up.

  Manning’s Hotel, good afternoon, Betty speaking. How may I help?

  Betty, whom she didn’t know well: a small blessing. Um, could I speak with Mr Manning please?

  He’d kill her. He’d give her a right tongue lashing, and she’d just have to take it.

  But there had been no tongue lashing.

  I’m afraid Mr Manning is away on leave. May I take a message?

  She’d said no and hung up, forgetting to ask when he’d be back. She’d have to ring again when they got home from Italy. It would have to be done. It was the right thing to do. She’d apologise, if he gave her a chance. She’d do that much.

  She pulled on her jeans and slipped her feet into sneakers. She’d bring Scooter for a walk. She’d avoid the village, take the quieter road to the lighthouse. If she met anyone she knew, she’d look them in the eye. She had no idea if the latest news had got around, but she couldn’t stay holed up. She’d face whatever there was to be faced.

  As she buttoned her shirt, there was a tap on the door.

  ‘Andy is downstairs,’ Imelda said. ‘He’d like to talk to you. You don’t have to if you don’t want to.’

  Andy. The name caused a great burst within her. He was either here to kill her, or forgive her. ‘I’ll come down. Give me a sec.’

  ‘He’s in the sitting room.’

  She stroked on mascara and lipstick. She brushed blusher onto pale cheekbones. She still looked crap, but there was no time for more.

  He stood by the window, hands in jeans pockets. The sight of him. She closed the door and leant against it, and they regarded one another for what seemed like an age. She wondered if he could hear the pounding inside her. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look anything. Finally, she found the courage to speak.

  ‘I don’t blame you if you hate me.’

  ‘I don’t hate you – although you did land me in it.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I honestly believed what I said was true.’

  ‘I know you did.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say anything until Tilly was gone home. It was just … when you said …’ She stopped, floundering, unwilling and unable to rehash it all. ‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘I hope you can fix things with her.’

  He continued to regard her. She forced herself to return his gaze, although it killed her to be in the same room as him, to be so close to him, knowing she’d thrown him away when she shouldn’t have. Knowing he would never again be hers.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘Tilly and I have … separated.’

  It took a few seconds for that to sink in. She’d broken them up. She could think of nothing at all to say in response.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ he went on. ‘It’s not because of what happened. It wasn’t working out, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, because she did feel responsible, whatever he said.

  ‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘How are you doing?’

  She tried to smile. It didn’t happen. ‘I – think I probably need to … talk to someone.’ She’d never imagined she’d say that, not after the last time. But there were other counsellors – or maybe she was more ready to listen to them now, more open to the idea. She’d ask Imelda what she thought about that, if the right time came in Italy.

  He nodded. ‘I think that might be good for you. Anyway, I just wanted to come and … see you. See that you were OK.’

  His concern, so ill-earned, so unexpected, caused tears to spring to her eyes. She’d accused him wrongly in front of half the island. He’d been publicly humiliated, and his relationship was finished. And yet here he was, bearing her no grudge, calling to see that she was OK.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered – and then he was beside her, putting his arms around her, telling her not to cry, telling her it would be OK, it would all be forgotten in no time. Telling her he hoped they could still be friends.

  At first she held back, terrified to submit to his embrace. She resisted but he stayed put, and in the end she gave in and rested her head against his chest and allowed herself to be held as the tears flowed. And it felt good; it felt better than it should. They fitted together like they’d always fitted together.

  It didn’t mean anything; she knew that. He was offering comfort, no more – but she accepted it gratefully.

  Eventually they drew apart. She fished for a tissue and found none, and ruined her shirt sleeve instead.

  ‘Imelda says you’re going to Italy.’

  ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll give a shout when you’re home,’ he said, ‘if that’s OK.’

  She nodded. It means nothing. It means nothing. ‘Yes,’ she said, still nodding, nodding far more than she
needed to, unable to stop nodding. She saw him to the front door and closed it after him, and returned upstairs before Imelda reappeared and asked questions she wouldn’t be able to answer.

  She washed her face. She dabbed concealer beneath her swollen eyes and redid her lipstick. She left the bedroom and went to find Scooter, and all the time she told herself it was over between them. It had been over for a long time, and after what had happened there was certainly no chance of them getting back together.

  But he was giving her a shout when she got back from Italy. He still wanted them to be friends.

  She held on to that. She held on tightly.

  Susan

  ‘SEE THE BIRD?’ SHE POINTED TO A THRUSH THAT HAD just alighted on a nearby branch.

  He looked, and saw. He laughed. ‘Bird,’ he said.

  ‘Bird,’ she agreed.

  The park was small, and very pretty. Roughly triangular in shape, and bordered by ornate white railings. Inside were a row of trees with slender silver trunks, and flowers in rectangular beds framing patches of neatly trimmed grass, and a rose garden still in full bloom running along the park’s shortest side.

  A paved path wove its way around the place, with wooden benches positioned alongside it at intervals. Attached to the back of the bench where Susan and Harry sat was a little brass plaque that read: For Edith, who loved this place. Susan imagined Edith – tiny, grey-haired, tweed-coated, smiling – coming to the park each day, a little paper bag of seeds or breadcrumbs in her pocket for the birds.

  The morning was fine, a sky of deep blue interrupted only by the wispiest of clouds. Susan lifted her face to let it bask in the warmth of the sun, and she felt determined to be happy.

  A man entered the park. He wore a navy pinstripe suit over a white shirt, and his black shoes were very shiny. His hair was silver and sparse; he walked slowly, back curved into a stoop, his right hand clasping the bulbous head of a stout wooden stick. She wondered if he was Edith’s husband, and if they were sitting on the bench he always chose, but he gave no sign that he was put out. He nodded as he passed her, and said ‘Nice day,’ and she said it was, beautiful.