by Maeve Binchy
Then she would go to Ricky's party in his studio. Everyone liked Ricky. A pleasant, easygoing photographer, he would gather a lot of people and make a buzz for them all. There would be a fair crowd of poseurs and empty-headed types dying to see themselves in the gossip columns… She was unlikely to meet the love of her life or even a temporary soulmate, but still Shona would dress up and go there simply because she did not see herself as the kind of person who would sit alone in her apartment in Glenstar.
The question nagged her, what would she really like to be doing tonight? It was so hard to answer because everything had changed so much. The good days were over, and it was impossible to imagine doing something that would make her really happy. So in the absence of that, Ricky's would do fine.
Marcella was painting her toenails. She had new evening sandals which she'd bought at a thrift shop. She showed them proudly to Tom. They had been barely worn; someone must have bought them and found they didn't suit.
'They must have cost a fortune new,' she said happily, examining them carefully.
'Are you happy?' Tom asked.
'Very,' she said. 'And you?'
'Oh, very, very,' he laughed. Was that strictly true? He didn't want to go to this party at all. But just looking at her did make him happy. He couldn't really believe that such a beautiful girl, who could have had anyone she wanted, really found him enough for her. Tom had no idea that he was attractive, he thought he was big and clumsy. He honestly believed that all the admiring glances they got as a couple were directed at Marcella alone…
'I heard a radio programme saying people were never happy,' she began.
'I know, I heard it too,' Tom said.
'I was just thinking how lucky we were; poor Cathy and Neil can't do what they want tonight.' Marcella stood in her thong and picked up a tiny red garment from the back of a chair.
'Yeah, Cathy will be there now, at her mother-in-law's house, laying up the tables. I hope she keeps her temper.'
'Well she'll have to, it's work, it's professional. We all have to at work,' said Marcella, who had bent over too many imperious hands already in her life, and wanted her day in the sunshine, walking down the ramp as a model.
'Neil will be there and that pup of a cousin he has, so she should be all right.' Tom still sounded doubtful.
Marcella had put on the red outfit. It was actually a dress, short and tight, clinging to her and leaving nothing to the imagination.
'Marcella, are you really wearing that to the party?'
'Don't you like it?' her face clouded over immediately.
'Well of course I like it. You look beautiful. It's just that maybe I'd like you to wear it here, for us, not for everyone else as well to see you.'
'But Tom, it's a party dress,' she cried, stricken.
He pulled himself together at once.
'Of course it is, and you'll be the success of the night.'
'So what did you mean… ?'
'Mean? I meant nothing. I meant you were so gorgeous I didn't want to share you with people… but take no notice. I didn't really mean that at all.'
'I thought you'd be proud of me,' she said.
'I am so proud you'll never know,' he reassured her. And she was a beauty. He must have been insane to have had that sudden reaction.
Hannah Mitchell stood in her navy wool dress, her hair hard and lacquered from her New Year's Eve visit to Haywards. She always dressed as if she were going out to a ladies' lunch. Cathy never remembered her wearing a pinafore or even an old skirt. But then, if you did no housework, what was the point of wearing things like that?
Hannah watched Cathy carry in all the boxes and crates, one by one, standing in her way and fussing and blocking her journey. She offered to carry nothing at all. Instead, she was hoping the crates wouldn't mark the wallpaper, and wondering where would Cathy put the van so that it would be out of the way when people came. Grimly, Cathy marched to and from the kitchen of Oaklands. She turned on the ovens, laid her tea towels on the backs of chairs, placed her bag of ice in the freezer and began to sort out the food. It would be useless asking Hannah Mitchell to leave her alone, to go upstairs and lie down. She would stay put, fuss and irritate until the guests arrived.
'Will Mr Mitchell be home shortly?' Cathy thought she might ask him to help her unpack the glasses.
'I don't know, Cathy; really, it's not up to me to police Mr Mitchell about what time he comes home.' Cathy felt her neck redden in rage. How dare this woman be so offensive and patronising. But she knew she stood alone in this resentment. Neil would shrug if she told him. Her mother would beg her not to annoy Mrs Mitchell any further. Even her aunt Geraldine, who could normally be relied on for encouragement and support, would say what the hell. It just proved that Hannah Mitchell was an insecure nobody, not anyone to waste time worrying over. Cathy began to peel the foil from the dishes she had prepared.
'Is that fish? Not everyone eats it, you know.' Hannah had her very concerned face on now.
'I know, Mrs Mitchell, some people don't, which is why there's a choice, you see.'
'But they mightn't know.'
'I think they will. I'll tell them.'
'But didn't you say it was a buffet?'
'Yes, but I'll be behind it serving, so I'll tell them.'
'Tell them?' Hannah Mitchell was bewildered.
Cathy wondered was there a possibility that her mother-in-law was actually a halfwit.
'Like asking them would they like fish in a sea-food sauce, or herbed chicken, or the vegetarian goulash,' she said.
Mrs Mitchell tried but found it hard to find fault with this.
'Yes, well,' she said eventually.
'So will I just get on with it now, do you think?' she asked.
'Cathy, my dear, may I ask who is stopping you?' Hannah said with her face hard and unforgiving at all this confidence in Poor Lizzie Scarlet's girl.
Neil looked at his watch. Every single person in this room had some kind of New Year's function to go to except the student that they had all gathered to protect. They would be finished soon, but nobody must be seen to hasten away. It would be terrible for the man whose future hung in the balance if he thought that the civil rights activists, the social workers and lawyers were more interested in their own night's fun and games than they were in his perdicament. He was trying to reassure this young Nigerian that there would be justice and a welcome for him in Ireland. Neil would not let Jonathan spend the dawn of a New Year on his own.
'When we're through here, you can come back to my parents' house,' he said. He was already late, but it couldn't be helped.
The big sad eyes looked at him. 'You don't have to, you know.'
'I know I don't have to, and a barrel of laughs it won't be, but my wife is doing the catering so the food will be good. My parents' friends are… well, how will I put it… a bit dead.'
'I'm okay, Neil, truly, you're doing so much for me and all this has delayed you from it already....'
'We'll go through it once more,' Neil said to the meeting, 'then Jonathan and I will go and party.' He saw them look at him in admiration. Neil Mitchell really went the distance. He felt a bit guilty at not being there to help Cathy as he had promised, but this was much more important—she'd understand. Cathy would be fine. His father and his cousin Walter would be there to help her by now… Everything would be fine.
Hannah still hovered, which meant that Cathy had to talk, answer inane questions, pat down unnecessary worries and even bring up topics of conversation, lest she be considered moody.
'It's nearly seven-thirty, Walter will be here any minute,' Cathy said desperately. She could have got things done far faster had she not been under the scrutiny of the most critical eyes in the western hemisphere. Fingers could have been used more often than they were, things could have been flung into places rather than placed elegantly.
'Oh, Walter! Like all young people, I'm sure he'll be late.' There was a sniff of disapproval and resignation.
'I don't think so, Mrs Mitchell, not tonight. It's a professional engagement, he's being paid from seven-thirty until twelve-thirty. That's a five-hour booking. I'm certain he won't let us down.'
Cathy wasn't at all sure of this; she had no evidence that Walter Mitchell was reliable. But at least it was going to be known what his terms of business were. And if he didn't turn up, then his own relations would have been made aware of his shortcomings. She heard someone outside.
'Ah, that must be Walter now,' she said. 'I knew he'd be on time.'
It was in fact Jock Mitchell, who came into the kitchen rubbing his hands.
'This looks just great, Cathy. I say, Hannah, isn't this an amazing spread?'
'Yes,' said his wife.
'Welcome home, Mr Mitchell. I thought it was Walter. He's actually working for me tonight,' Cathy said. 'Did he leave the office at the same time as you, by any chance?'
'Ages earlier,' her father-in-law said. 'Boy keeps his own time. I'm getting a bit of stick from the partners over him, as it happens.'
Hannah Mitchell hated family business being discussed in front of Cathy.
'Why don't you come upstairs and have a shower, dear? The guests will be here in half an hour,' she said crisply.
'Fine, fine. Don't you want any help, Cathy?'
'No, not at all. As I say, my wine waiter will be here shortly,' Cathy said.
'And Neil?' he asked.
'At a consultation. He'll be along when he can.'
She was alone in the kitchen. So far she was surviving, but it was only fifteen minutes before eight o'clock. There were hours and hours to go.
Ricky's party was only starting at nine, and they would go much later, so Tom Feather had plenty of time to go up to his parents and wish them a Happy New Year. He caught the bus from outside the door of Stoneyfield flats, and it went directly to Fatima, his mother and father's house, weighed down with statues and holy pictures. He longed to call Cathy and ask how it was all going, but she said she had better not bring her mobile into the house—it seemed to irritate Hannah Mitchell beyond all reason. She would leave it in the van. Cathy would not appreciate being telephoned and called to the hall at Oaklands. He would have to leave it.
Tom sat on the bus, his heart heavy. He was so stupid to be upset by that skimpy dress Marcella was wearing. She was dressing up for him; she loved only him. He was so mean-spirited to grudge the hour it took to go and sit with his parents in their cluttered sitting room. It was just that they were so pessimistic, so willing to see the downside of things, while he had always been the reverse. He was a fool to be upset because they hadn't found premises for the new company yet. They would: it took time, that's what everyone said, and then the right place would come along.
'Tom's mother said they had heard nothing from Tom's brother Joe, nothing at all even on Christmas Day. There were phones in London, he could lift one of them. Tom's father said that there was an article in the paper saying that the building industry was going to go through the roof, and yet Tom Feather was chasing after moonbeams trying to set up a catering company instead of entering a ready-made office. Tom was pleasant and cheerful, and talked on and on until his jaw ached, hugged them both and said he must go back.
'I don't suppose you'd make an honest woman out of Marcella't, next year. Could that be your resolution?' his mother asked.
'Mam, I wanted to marry Marcella about twenty-five minutes after I met her. I must have asked her at least a hundred times He spread his hands out helplessly. They knew he was telling the truth.
Walter Mitchell looked at his watch in the pub where a group of his friends were having a New Year's Eve drink.
'Shit, it's eight o'clock,' he said.
Cathy would be like a devil over this, but still, Uncle Jock and Aunt Hannah would stand up for him. That was the great thing about being family.
There was no sign of Walter, so Cathy unpacked the glasses, filled thirty of them with a sugar lump and a teaspoon of brandy and laid them on a tray. Later, once the guests arrived, she would top the glasses up with champagne. That boy was meant to be doing this while she got her trays of canapes ready. Cathy caught sight of herself in the hall mirror—she looked flushed and uneasy. Wisps of hair were escaping from the ribbon that tied it back. This would not do.
She went into the downstairs cloakroom and smoothed a beige liquid make-up over her face and neck. She dampened her hair and tied it more expertly back. This is where she needed Marcella, to put something magical on her eyes. Cathy hunted in her handbag. There was a stubby brown pencil, and she made a few stabs at herself with that. She put on her clean white shirt and her scarlet skirt. It looked a bit better, she thought. How wonderful if she got a lot of business for the company out of this party! But Cathy knew she must be careful. Any sign of touting for business, or giving a card, would be frowned upon by her mother-in-law. Please may it be a success, otherwise days and days of effort, and money they could ill afford, would all have been wasted.
Ricky's studio was in a basement, three rooms opening into each other, drink in one, food in another and dancing in a third. You didn't so much come in, you made an entrance by walking down a big staircase which was brightly lit.
Tom and Marcella had left their coats on the ground floor, and he felt every eye in the room was on Marcella in her little red dress as she walked gracefully ahead of him down the stairs, with her beautiful long legs and the gold evening sandals that she was so proud of. No wonder they looked at her. Every other woman seemed suddenly drab by comparison.
Marcella never ate or drank at these functions. She might have a glass of fizzy water. But she genuinely wasn't hungry, she said, with such sincerity that people believed her. Tom, however, was dying to see the food, to compare it to what he and Cathy would have done. For a party like this they would serve a choice of two hot dishes with a lot of pitta bread, something like the chicken in herbs and the vegetarian dish that Cathy was preparing at her in-laws' house. But Ricky's caterers seemed to have endless plates of insubstantial and tired-looking finger food. Smoked salmon already drying and hardening on bread, some kind of pate spread sparsely on unappetising-looking biscuits. Cocktail sausages congealing and allowed to cool in their own fat. Bit by bit he tasted and examined, identifying a shop paste here and a bought biscuit base there. He ached to know how much they had charged a head. He would be able to ask Ricky eventually, but not tonight.
'Tom, stop tearing those unfortunate things to bits,' Marcella giggled at him.
'Look at them, will you—soggy pastry, far too much salt…'
'Come and dance with me.'
'In a moment. I have to see what other awful things are lurking here,' he said, poking around the plates.
'Would you like to dance with me?' A boy of nineteen was staring at Marcella in disbelief.
'Tom?'
'Go ahead. I'll come in and drag you away in a minute,' Tom grinned.
It was considerably later, and after three glasses of inferior wine, that he found his way to the little dance floor. Marcella was dancing with a man with a big red face and big hands. The man's hands were spread over Marcella's bottom. Tom moved up to them.
'I've come to drag you away,' he said.
'Hey,' the man said, 'fair's fair, find your own girl.'
'Oh, this is my girl,' Tom said firmly.
'Well have some manners, then, and let us finish the dance.'
'If you don't mind…' Tom began.
'Let's just finish this dance,' Marcella said. 'And then I'll dance with you, Tom, I have been waiting for you.'
He moved away, annoyed. Somehow it was now his fault that this lout had his hands all over Marcella. He saw Shona Burke, nice girl from Haywards, one of the many people in Dublin who had been asked to look out for premises for the new catering company.
'Would you like me to get you a glass of red ink and a piece of cardboard with a scrape of meat paste on it?' he offered.
Shona laughed. 'Now, you're not going to g
et anywhere by bad-mouthing the opposition,' she said.
'No, but this kind of thing really does annoy me. It's so shoddy,' Tom said. His glance went back to Marcella, who was still talking to and dancing with that horrible man.
'It's all right, Tom, she has eyes for no one except you.'
Tom was embarrassed to have been so obvious. I meant the food. It's really outrageous to charge Ricky for this. Whatever he paid he was robbed.'
'Sure you were talking about the food,' Shona said.
'Would you like to dance?' he said.
'No, Tom, I'm not going to be any part of this. Go and get Marcella.'
But by the time he came over, another man had asked her to dance and the man with the big face and the big hands watched her approvingly from the sidelines. Tom went off to have another glass of the unspeakable wine.
Walter arrived at eight-thirty, when there were ten guests already installed in the sitting room of Oaklands. He came in cheerfully kissing his aunt on both cheeks.
'Now let me give you a hand, Aunt Hannah,' he said with a broad smile.
'Such a nice boy, isn't he?' said Mrs Ryan to Cathy.
'Indeed,' Cathy managed to say.
Mrs Ryan and her husband had been the first guests to arrive. She was totally unlike Hannah Mitchell; a humble woman, who was full of admiration for the canapes and had plenty of small talk for Cathy.
'My husband will be annoyed that we were here first,' she confided.
'Somebody has to be first. I think it's nice to be one of the early arrivals.'
Cathy wasn't concentrating. She was looking at Walter, small and handsome like all the Mitchells, and she was trying hard to keep her temper under control. He was being praised and feted by people like her mother-in-law and stupid guests for having turned up one whole hour late. She was barely listening to what the apologetic Mrs Ryan was saying about being a poor cook herself.
