by Cathy Kelly
‘I’m off to meet Alastair in the golf club for a drink. I’ll be back within the hour.’
‘Be sure you are,’ she warned with a glint in her eyes. ‘Or I’ll drive down to the club and drag you out myself!’
When he was gone, she changed out of the jeans and white fitted blouse she’d worn all morning, and slipped on her dressing gown. It was noon, so she had exactly two hours before the guests were due to arrive. She was going to soak in a relaxing bath and get ready in luxurious slowness. Stella was overseeing the caterers, Amelia and Holly had gone for a walk, Tara had phoned to say that she and Finn would be arriving at about half one. Adele was lying down with a headache. The whole family was accounted for. Nobody needed Rose. She could close the bathroom door and forget about everyone but herself for a few hedonistic moments. When the bubbles were a foamy mass and the bath was nearly full, Rose turned off the taps and lowered herself in. Her hair was covered with a shower cap and she’d rolled up a small towel as a pillow. Sitting back in comfort, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to remember forty years before. Her mother in her lemon-yellow suit, bought at great expense in Dublin and costing more than all of the other clothes in Anna Riordain’s entire wardrobe put together.
‘I’m not letting my only daughter down on her wedding day,’ Anna had said proudly when she showed Rose the suit and the little cloche hat with the silk flowers. ‘Your father’s good suit is a bit shiny in places so if you don’t think it’s suitable, tell me. We’ll get him another one, we’ll manage.’
There were tears in Rose’s eyes again as she thought of her mother’s fierce pride. In their quiet way, the Riordains would bankrupt themselves so that Rose could walk up the aisle with her head held high. Rose, who knew that Hugh’s mother would be decked out in a dress ordered from London, had never loved her mother more than on that day.
The phone rang. Rose sat abruptly up in the bath and hoped somebody else would answer it. Still it rang.
‘For God’s sake!’ Rose hauled her aching bones out of her lovely hot bath and dragged a towel round herself. Into the bedroom she marched and lifted the phone crossly.
‘Hello!’
There was silence on the other end of the line, just the faint sound of somebody breathing.
‘There’s a law against nuisance phone calls, you know,’ Rose said angrily, knowing she was dripping onto the carpet.
‘I’m not the nuisance, you are!’ shrieked a woman’s voice.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Rose, perplexed.
‘Ask your husband, Mr Ruby Anniversary,’ said the caller in anguished tones and hung up.
Still clad only in a now very damp bath towel, Rose ran from the room and ran downstairs to the hall phone which boasted the latest in technology. Caller ID was the way of the future, the young telecoms engineer had explained earnestly when he installed the new phone and told Rose how she’d be able to see who was phoning her and get the numbers of people who’d rung. The booklet that explained all this technology was still on the hall table for further reference, although Rose knew it wouldn’t be long before it joined all the other unlooked-at reference books that were kept ‘just in case’ in the odds and ends drawer in the kitchen. Rose flicked through the booklet, found the page on recalling the numbers of callers, picked up the high-tech portable phone and pressed two buttons. The distant phone began to ring. Rose walked slowly upstairs, somehow knowing that she didn’t want to have this conversation where other people could hear her.
‘Yes,’ said a tearful voice on the other end of the phone.
Rose shut the bedroom door and locked it. ‘This is Rose Miller,’ she said simply. ‘You phoned me. I wanted to know why.’
The woman sniffled. ‘Don’t you know?’ she said.
Rose sat down on the bed where the leather jewellery box that had contained Hugh’s gift still lay. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to tell me.’
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have rung. It just got to me.’
‘Please tell me,’ Rose said, even though she knew.
‘I’m sure you’re a nice woman…I didn’t mean anything by it.’
‘Is it Hugh?’
‘I know he said he’d never leave you but I couldn’t cope today…It’s so hard,’ the woman broke down into great sobs. ‘You must understand.’
Rose wanted to know more but couldn’t face it. Yet.
‘Please forgive me…’ the woman wailed. Normally, Rose was the expert at saying the right thing and helping people in pain. But comforting her husband’s mistress was a step too far. She pushed the ‘end call’ button and dropped the phone onto the bed beside the jewellery box.
She sat there for a long time, thinking, then began to dress mechanically. Adele envied her, this unknown woman envied her. What precisely had she done that made all these people envy her?
It was five past two and Adele was ready for the party. Hugh had gone out to greet a few early guests but there was no sign of Rose. Honestly, where was the woman?
As she heard a noise on the stairs, Adele looked up. She could hear laughing and joking, and knew it was her three nieces. They were always like that when they were together. How ever had Rose managed to rear three girls who got on so well? More good luck.
‘Aunt Adele, what are you doing in here?’ asked Stella warmly, eyes shining as the sisters appeared in the hall, decked out in their party finery. Stella was elegant in a dusky pink printed dress, Tara was striking in a sleek red outfit, and Holly was clad in some dark brown dress that reached her ankles and did nothing for her. Stella linked her arm through her aunt’s. Stella was the most like Rose, Adele thought. She had the same kind face as her mother’s, the same shining dark eyes and the same cloud of dark hair. But she’d got her hair cut short for some reason and it was terrible, really terrible. Adele was about to say so but thought better of it.
‘We should be outside, Aunt Adele; the guests are due any minute and Dad wants us all ready to greet them,’ pointed out Tara. Adele was never sure who Tara resembled but she certainly didn’t like Tara’s boyish haircut and those terrible rectangular glasses with the black frames.
Adele’s resolve cracked. ‘Why don’t you get nice goldrimmed glasses,’ she found herself saying. ‘They’re so much more flattering, Tara.’
Her niece smiled tightly. ‘Finn picked them out for me, Aunt Adele,’ she said.
Adele’s face softened. Finn was such a great lad.
‘Are you not wearing anything brighter?’ Adele asked, turning her eagle eye to Holly. ‘You’ll die with the heat in that dark thing. It’s a warm day.’
‘It’s a Ghost dress, it’s very light,’ interrupted Stella, before Holly could say a word. ‘I think it’s lovely, Holly.’
‘Me too,’ said Tara.
The four of them proceeded out the patio doors and walked the few yards to the marquee, whereupon Adele slipped her arm from Stella’s and sailed forward like a stately galleon in her lilac two-piece. Behind her, the three sisters exchanged resigned grins.
‘How many years in jail would you get for aunt-ricide?’ inquired Tara, gazing after their aunt.
‘Tara, you’re terrible,’ said Stella, laughing. ‘It would break Dad’s heart if anything happened to Adele. He loves her, you know.’
‘I’d love her too if she didn’t say such awful things,’ protested Tara. ‘Gold-rimmed glasses indeed. Finn didn’t pick these glasses, actually, but I knew she’d shut up if I said he did. She honestly thinks he can do no wrong.’
‘At least you’ve got a husband to do no wrong,’ pointed out Holly gloomily. ‘She already told me this morning that I’d have a much better chance of getting a boyfriend if I wore more conservative clothes. And now she’s slagging off my dress.’ Holly couldn’t quite hide how much these remarks had hurt her.
‘Silly cow,’ said Tara crossly. ‘Anyway, Mum will probably murder her before the day is out.’
Stella looked at her in surprise. Their mother practic
ally never lost her temper, particularly with Aunt Adele, which showed remarkable restraint, Stella always thought.
Tara explained herself. ‘I overheard her telling Mum that Dad is looking very tired and Mum should stop him working himself into the ground. Mum said ‘It’s none of your business, Adele,’ in a very hard voice. I’ve never heard her speak to Adele like that before, although it certainly shut her up, mind you.’
‘Don’t you just love family parties,’ Holly murmured wryly. ‘Fun for all the family: a big row.’
‘Cheer up, Holly,’ said Stella, giving her youngest sister an affectionate hug. ‘This is going to be great.’
Stella didn’t noticed Holly’s resigned face. Instead, she’d turned happily to Tara. ‘It’s a pity Finn couldn’t get here until later. I’ve got to say, that company really works the poor man’s guts out. I know he hates horse racing and imagine them forcing him to go to that corporate clients’ day out when he’d something else on.’
Tara smiled but said nothing. She could hardly say that there was no corporate day out but that she and Finn had rowed and that Finn insisted on driving down by himself as he didn’t want to get ‘stuck’ in Kinvarra all the next day. Incredibly, Stella hadn’t noticed that Tara was in any way upset. Her sister was usually so astute but since she’d met Nick, she was on a different planet. Planet Lurve. Whatever the oxygen:nitrogen ratio was there, it had stopped Stella from noticing anything except Amelia and her beloved Nick. Not that Tara wasn’t delirious that Stella had finally found love. Far from it. But with Stella eating, sleeping and breathing Nick Cavaletto, her sisterly radar was out of action. Since that night in Stella’s, when Finn hadn’t arrived to collect Tara, she’d longed to confide in Stella but her pride got in the way and she didn’t know how to broach the subject.
The three sisters reached the marquee. Their father was holding court with a few early guests with Aunt Adele in attendance but their mother was nowhere to be seen. At one end of the marquee stood the buffet tables clad in linen and decorated with lots of flowers. Huge piles of plates, cutlery, glasses and napkins were waiting, along with the giant stainless steel burners for the hot food. An enormous banner fluttered along one wall: Congratulations Rose and Hugh on your Ruby Wedding Anniversary.’
‘Isn’t this lovely,’ sighed Stella, thinking, as she always was these days, of Nick. She was so lucky to have found him. It was meant to be. Two people with bad marriages behind them, ready to leap into a wonderful new life together. All she needed to do was learn how to deal with Jenna. Time was the important factor. All Jenna needed was time to get used to the idea of her father and Stella as a couple. Then, everything would fall into place. In her heart, Stella sent up a silent prayer that this might happen. Then, everything would be perfect.
Holly faltered at the entrance to the marquee, trying to work out where would be the best place to stand in case Richie Murdoch and his mother turned up. Beside Tara might be a good idea. Tara would make her feel strong and give her the courage to say one brief hello to the scumbag and then ignore him. On her own, Holly knew she’d cave in and smile cravenly at him, pretending she’d forgotten how he’d humiliated her.
‘Tara.’ She grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘Did you hear Richie Murdoch’s coming?’
Tara looked astonished. ‘Who invited that low life?’
‘Mum did,’ said Holly.
Her sister said nothing for a moment, then linked her arm through Holly’s. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll take him on as a twosome, right?’
‘Right,’ said Holly gratefully.
Tara wished her own men problems could be solved as easily. Holly might be scanning the horizon for her horrible ex, but Tara was scanning it for her husband’s car. Finn had been so very angry earlier. Who knew what he’d do? He might not even turn up. Or, he might turn up jarred, having driven the car down drunk. Tara didn’t quite know which was worse.
By three, the road outside the house was thronged with cars, the waiters were sweating in the April sun from running round with bottles of wine and champagne, the partygoers were having a whale of a time, and the three Miller girls were on high alert. Something was wrong and for once, it wasn’t the men in their lives.
Nick had arrived at twenty past two, bearing a bottle of Cristalle for the anniversary couple, and a bouquet of white roses for Rose herself, who was still closeted in her bedroom with the door locked. He didn’t need to be looked after, he told Stella, after giving her a passionate kiss. He’d be fine on his own. He understood that she had to circulate.
Richie Murdoch hadn’t turned up, to Holly’s passionate relief. His mother had been driven by someone Holly didn’t recognise, a man in an awful suit, and Holly had given them both a wide berth, not wanting to so much as talk to a member of the Murdoch clan. Tara had been keeping her eyes peeled on the gate in case Finn did turn up pissed and attempted to park where he normally parked in Kinvarra, right in front of the house, which was now decorated with tables and pretty parasols. But there had been no sign of him. His mobile was turned off and she had visions of him crashing the car in a drunken haze and killing himself and some poor innocent in another car. She’d kill him if he turned up drunk after driving from Dublin.
But the real problem was Rose. When she hadn’t appeared by half two, Stella had run upstairs to see what was wrong.
‘Mum,’ she’d called, tapping softly on her parents’ bedroom door. ‘Can I come in? Are you OK?’
‘I’ve an awful migraine,’ Rose had replied. ‘I’m just going to lie here with the curtains closed for a few minutes more.’
‘Oh you poor love,’ commiserated Stella. ‘Can I get you anything?’ As she spoke, she turned the handle of the door and was amazed to find it was locked. This discovery made her momentarily speechless.
‘No, I’m fine, Stella.’
‘Are you sure, Mum?’ Her mother was not one for locked doors. In Kinvarra, everyone wandered in and out of rooms and none of the girls had ever locked the door of the bathroom the three of them had shared: they just yelled ‘I’m in here!’ when footsteps approached.
‘Yes,’ Rose said lightly. ‘I’ll be down presently.’
Stella went downstairs and smiled with utter brilliance at all the guests as if her beaming face would make people forget the fact that the hostess hadn’t appeared.
‘Where’s Mum?’ It was Tara, clutching a glass of juice and shading her eyes with her hand to see if Finn was on the horizon.
‘Locked in her room with a headache,’ said Stella shortly.
The sisters exchanged anxious glances.
‘We’d better tell Dad,’ said Tara.
‘No.’ Stella didn’t know why but she didn’t want their father to know. ‘Let’s not ruin things for him, we’ll tell Holly. Mum probably just needs a rest. The stress of organising this must have told on her.’
Upstairs in the bedroom she shared with Hugh, Rose lay on the bed surrounded by the detritus of Hugh’s home filing cupboards. His diaries for the past ten years—Hugh had a thing about keeping diaries—were also strewn on the bed. She had spent at least an hour going through them all and had realised that Hugh’s legal brain had come up with some sort of code for his activities. Being Hugh, however, it wasn’t much of a code and Rose had soon cracked it. On the day Rose had spotted him emerging nervously from a restaurant with his red-haired little friend, he’d supposedly been at a ‘Moriarty case review’. There were quite a few Moriarty case reviews listed over the years, which either meant that Miller & Lowe derived massive income from this unsettled case, one she’d actually never heard of. Or, that Moriarty didn’t exist, which seemed far more likely. His mobile phone bills—itemised—had also helped. Some of the numbers were unfamiliar to her, so she phoned them. One turned out to be his assistant’s voice mail. Another got the answering machine at Alastair Devon’s house. Rose hung up rapidly, feeling stupid. She should have recognised that number. Maybe she was being foolish. But when she examined a third number, it was the
same one as identified on her phone’s caller ID earlier.
She hadn’t seen Hugh since he’d given her the bracelet.
When he’d come home from his drink in the golf club with Alastair, and tried to get into the bedroom, he’d swallowed the story about her migraine hook, line and sinker.
‘Fine, dear, I’m ready anyhow. I’ll do a last-minute check on everything,’ he’d said from outside the door, sounding far too pleased with himself.
If he knew anything about her, Rose thought with rising fury, he’d know that she’d never had a migraine in her life.
She took her new dress from the wardrobe and looked at it objectively.
Lacey, doyenne of Kinvarra’s designer boutique, had only produced two outfits on the day Rose had visited to look for her party dress.
‘That floaty muck would look terrible on you,’ said Lacey dismissively, gesturing at an entire rail of ethereal floaty, mother-of-the-bride rig-outs. ‘I’ve got two things that would suit you.’
That was what made Lacey such a good saleswoman, Rose thought. There was no faffing around trying on tonnes of unsuitable clothes so that by the twentieth outfit, the customer would be in utter despair and buy the thing that looked least horrible on her. Lacey cut out the faffing about and the despair. From her shop-full of stock, she had picked out two dresses for Rose and they both looked perfect on her. Rose went for the amber raw silk shift dress with a matching short jacket. It was timeless. French chic mixed with Hollywood glamour.
‘Fantastic,’ was all Lacey said when Rose stood in the shop, looking elegant and almost regal. The soft amber colour suited her skin tones; as she aged she could no longer take the bright colours she’d worn in her youth.
Now, Rose dressed and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. Apart from her pallor, she looked every inch the successful wife of the town’s top lawyer. The betrayed wife. Rose couldn’t face looking at herself any more and went back into the bedroom.
