Friends Like Us (7 page)

‘You are brave!' said Miriam. ‘
And
butter? Throwing caution out the window?'

It's to the bloody wind, you fool! Steph shouted at her silently. ‘Kind of.' Steph tried to smile now, knowing there was no way she could finish this French calorie-bomb with any enjoyment at all now. ‘Would you like one?' she asked. ‘To go with your… soya latte… thing?'

Miriam recoiled. She might as well have suggested eating a tarantula. ‘It looks delicious but I just can't do carbs. I
so
wish I could, but my body won't allow it. You're lucky that you don't worry about keeping in shape. It's such a bore. But for someone like me, I've got to stay in the game. I mean, neither of us are getting any younger. But some of us are aging better than others.'

The croissant sat on the table between them as a symbol of all that was wrong in Steph's life. Fuck this, she thought. I'm going to eat that croissant, even if it is just a pathetic misguided attempt to show how different I am to this vain, passive-aggressive, boring, old cow. She defiantly began to spread on the Kerrygold in an extra thick mountainous mound.

‘You've such a great appetite on you,' said Miriam. ‘I wish I could eat like that. I really have to
mind
myself. I'm not like you…' She gazed sweetly at Steph who stared back maniacally while pushing some more croissant into her mouth. ‘You eat what you want, never thinking of the consequences. You see I'm off
all
carbs. I'm alkaline these days. And, you know, I'm feeling
a-may-zing
. So much energy! You know, I just hop out of bed in the morning, ready for action. The girls at the club can't believe me. After a match, I'm always bouncing around wanting another game. Duracell, they call me. Isn't that funny?'

‘Very,' said Steph, wondering how long Miriam and Rick had been sleeping together. Months? Could even be years. ‘What's the opposite of Alkaline?'

‘Um…' Miriam tried to think.

‘Well, I'm on
that
diet,' said Steph, mouth full of croissant. ‘Whatever it's called. The
Acid
diet?'

‘I… er…' Miriam couldn't quite understand her through the croissant. ‘I don't think that sounds good for you…'

The waitress came over and unsmilingly placed the coffee down beside her.

‘Thanks, Petrina. You're amazing,' said Miriam before taking a slurp, getting lipstick all over the rim of the cup.

Steph desperately looked around for escape.

‘So, anyway, that's why I'm here,' carried on Miriam, blithely. ‘I'm sure you were wondering. I have been looking and looking and looking for the last two months for something to wear. Not a big ask, you would think. Wrong! A fucking big ask. Capital BIG. The biggest. So, today I get a phone-call from Lisa in Designer – talk about leaving it a bit late, Lisa, I said. Why couldn't you have saved me from a near fucking heart attack by calling last fucking week? But she said soooo sorry. They've only just come in. From Milan. She says that Donatella,
the
Donatella FYI, had only just managed to find the dress. So I'm like… okay. I'll have a look. I pretended to be all cool and everything but I am so excited. I mean, it's only Versace, isn't it. Haw haw! I need more of this.' She drank more coffee. ‘So here I am. Little old me. And it's fab-u-lous. Worth waiting for. Can't wait to show you!'

Steph realised that if she endured one more nanosecond of this assault on her senses then she might combust. I've put up with her for years, she thought. And I haven't said anything. I've allowed us to be friends and I've allowed this situation to happen. No self-respecting woman would have put up with this. Why have I? Even if she isn't shagging my husband then I must get away from her for the sake of my sanity.

‘By the way, you
are
coming, aren't you? You didn't respond to the RSVP… I know how busy you are with… with… you know… whatever. Anyway, it's at two p.m. But don't bother coming to the church bit – bore-issimo! We'll just see you at the house for the
real
event. Haw haw haw
.
' Miriam's epiglottis dangled like a condemned man (or woman).

‘Yes, yes, sounds lovely,' said Steph, hating herself even more. And hating herself for suffering the witterings of the most life-sapping woman on earth. Jesus Christ alive. What had happened to Steph Sheridan, arts history graduate, confident, happy, surrounded by proper friends, people who liked her and weren't shagging her husband? And who was this joke in her place – Steph Fitzgerald cuckolded wife, fool of the century and general laughing stock?

Steph zoned out watching Miriam's mouth move frantically. She would have thought, she mused, that Rick would have better taste. Obviously not. She wondered about Angeline, and what Miriam would say if she knew about her. Did she think they were exclusive? Or was it possible to be exclusive if you were having an affair? A moral conundrum for the modern era.

‘So,' Miriam was saying, ‘Totally Cheffilly are doing the food – they did Hugh's fortieth. Remember? God, that pavlova was to die for. No gluten, you get me? Now, is pavlova alkaline?'

Steph shrugged. ‘Not the foggiest,' she said, caring not one jot what the pavlova was (except delicious, of course).

‘Anyway, I'll just have the teensiest crumb of it.'

‘Of course.'

‘So, let me tell you this, the nude Jimmy Choo just weren't right.' Miriam was on to shoes now. I used to love art and culture. I once wrote essays on Giotto and Giacometti and Gaugin, and now I was listening to drivel about diets and shoes. ‘So Lisa is ordering them from Jimmy himself. Such a sweet man. I met him in London last year. At his workshop. Not exactly Bond Street but full of a-may-zing shoes. My feet are so tiny, he says, like a bird's, apparently.'

‘Bird's feet? Aren't they claws? Is that a good thing?' She high-fived herself in her head. Small victories had to be acknowledged.

‘Totally, haw-haw, but you know what I mean.'

I ought to be ashamed of myself, thought Steph. Where's my pride, where's my fucking pride.

Steph watched Miriam quickly re-smear her lips with lipstick, smack them together, and gather her bags. ‘Gotta go, you know,' said Miriam. ‘Wish I could sit round all day drinking coffee like you but I am just
so
busy, right? But see you Saturday? And Rachel too. Aoife would
die
if she didn't come. And Ricky, too, of course!'

Ricky?! And she thought she could get away with having an affectionate nickname for my husband. Rick hated being called Ricky. He said once it's what his (weird and narcissistic) mother used to call him whenever she bothered to be around. Steph wondered if Miriam just used a pet name for him to annoy her, like they had something intimate between them. As though Steph hadn't a clue just
how
intimate. And Miriam was the one to bombard her and then walk away, leaving Steph feeling furious that she had allowed to be controlled by her.

She drifted into the handbag and scarves department and wound a soft and luxurious black cashmere scarf around her neck. Steph looked at herself in the mirror. It was beautiful. Expensive but beautiful. If she really wanted it, she could pay for it, using
Ricky's
money. But suddenly she was gripped with something else, she knew she was going to steal it. It was like she was possessed with this need, this desire, this urge. She had promised herself, over and over again, that she would stop this, not do it again, especially after the close-shave with Fintan and the chocolate bloody bunny. But the urge, whatever it was, was more powerful that she. Her whole body was filled with an energy which simultaneously empowered and frightened her, as though she was someone else, someone she wasn't in control of. She had promised herself she would stop, but each time she realized that it wasn't so easy.

She felt along the scarf for the security tag. None. Right, this shouldn't be too difficult. Leaving the scarf on, she casually checked out other scarves and more bags, fingering and feeling, drifting about dreamily as though she was any other woman on a browse. But, unlike all the other women, she left the shop with the black cashmere still around her neck.

Heart pounding, alarms screaming inside her head, she stepped into the street. Adrenaline pumping, she felt triumphant… but the feeling was frustratingly fleeting. In an instant, super-stealing powers dissipated and she was left standing on the street, a common criminal and she hated herself for it.

It was still a building site but one day – imminently, knuckle-bitingly soon – it was to be his and Walter's very own bakery. This mess of dust and cement would soon be the culmination of all his dreams. His
professional
dreams, anyway.

He thought of Melissa, and wished, as he always did, that she was with him. She'd say something to make him laugh and he would feel complete, happy, excited, as he always did when she was around. But he had a date that night with Erica, a set-up, a blind date, and he was feeling nervous and conflicted.

It was Melissa he wanted to be set up with, eating out with meeting for a drink, cinema-ing, not this Erica. Who, he suspected, would be high-maintenance and probably very scary.

He loved Melissa. She made him laugh, she fascinated and enthralled him. He loved her brokenness, her vulnerability, her strength. He loved her face and her body and her hands that he had to stop himself from grabbing, holding her and never letting go. Whenever they hugged, hello, goodbye, she felt small and soft and… and so incredibly gorgeous. She dominated his life, his thoughts, and he wanted her to be his and him to be hers. Ever undaunted, he had waited impatiently for her, hoping that one day she would change her mind, and there he would be, her knight in shiny shoes. Much as he tried, his ardour would not, damn it, wane, or dissipate or vaporize but instead had taken root. He might attempt a good prune but, within hours, he was back again, all aflame, like those relighting candles on birthday candles.

He was driven demented by her. Had been for years and years and years. Desperate to be the object of her affection, he was frustrated he was only allowed to be the nice best friend. But he was nearly forty and there comes a time when you have to admit defeat.

Cormac had started to wonder. Was this it? His life? Was this all he was destined for? I am, he thought, the empty crisp packet in man form, wafting unwanted along the street. I am a barnacle. A clinger-onner, a cling-on. Melissa would never love him or see him as anything more than the non-gay gay best friend. This second-best life was, he had thought, until now, good enough for him. But no longer. Erica was the answer to all his problems, the key to his freedom from this unrequited state.

He and Melissa had met years ago in University College Dublin, when life hung enticingly before them and responsibility stretched only as far as remembering to Sharpie your name on the hummus. He actually had a photograph from the very first day he saw her and he had given his camera to someone to snap them all. It was the beginning of term in their second year and Melissa, sitting on the grass outside the Arts Block, was wearing baggy men's pyjama bottoms, a holey jumper and black Doc Martens. And laughing. She looked so beautiful, so happy. He in contrast looked like a moody teenager (which he was desperately trying to be. He had to consciously not smile in photos and there is a decade of images of unsmiling Cormac. It had driven his mam, Meenie, mad.

And Cormac had been in love with Melissa since then. Properly in love, not just fancied-a-bit or found-attractive, but really and truly and desperately in love. He knew, logically that there were other woman in the world, but he didn't believe it, like conspiracy theorists or flat-earthers. He was afraid he would be trapped in this state of unrequited torture for the rest of his life, Cormac forever hankering after her and Melissa never knowing.

But she does know. Well, there was that time, embarrassingly, he happened to shout it out at the top of his voice. A particular mortification which still had the power to stop him in his tracks whenever the memory tunnelled its way to the surface.

A whole group of them had gone to Clare to hole up in a house for a weekend of windy walks, drunken late nights and hugely enjoyable pontificating. Bleary of eye and sick of stomach, Cormac and Melissa alone drove early on the Sunday morning to the Cliffs of Moher – probably the last place on earth one should go when unsteady and nauseous but she wanted to and he wasn't going to let her go alone. He'd go to Mars if she wanted to but luckily she's never expressed an interest so he was off the hook on that one.

They stepped out of the car and were immediately blown off their feet and couldn't stop laughing as they linked arms and huddled together, shuffling along the path, wobbling towards the terrible drop. They fell to their knees and pulled themselves, commando-like, towards the edge and peered over to the swirling, swirmy sight below them, seagulls surfing the waves of wind, like kamikaze pilots, brave, fearless and death-wished. But for humans, the fall, thousands of metres to the sea below, was horrifying.

Lying on their bellies, peering over the edge, being buffeted by the wind, they caught each other's hands, and for a moment he thought I am never going to let go, they are going to have to prise me off this hand, call the fire brigade or chip me off with a chisel. He felt like kissing it, kissing her.

‘Yayhoooooooooo!' He shouted exuberantly into the wind.

Melissa grinned. ‘Yoooooohooooo!' she countered, her voice slamming into the wind.

‘Life… I love you!' she yelled, her voice this time carrying all the way to Boston. Cormac squeezed her hand again and looked at her, her beautiful brown eyes, her lopsided mouth, her freckly nose, her rosy cheeks. He couldn't help himself.