Just Between Us

‘Thank you,’ Gloria said sweetly to the young waiter, who beamed back. ‘Can’t be too careful,’ she added to Liz. ‘Melon is the only option. A moment on the lips…’

‘…a lifetime on the hips,’ finished Liz and they both giggled.

Tara watched in astonishment. Nobody would recognise her stony mother-in-law in this giggly woman across the table. Talk about street angel, house devil.

‘I might have melon too,’ said Serena thoughtfully.

‘Nonsense!’ Gloria was kind but firm. ‘You don’t need to diet, pet. You’ve a lovely little figure.’

Despite being seated apart, Liz, Gloria and Serena talked to each other noisily across the round table. Finn and his father were laughing over some story, while Pierre and Charles had livened up enough to argue over the wine. Tara sat silently and watched it all, thinking of the wonderful time Mum, Dad, Stella, Holly and Amelia would be having by now in Kinvarra. Nobody could magic up an air of festivity like Mum, and by now, the house would be filled with the smells of Christmas cooking, with Mum’s absolute favourite, Frank Sinatra, belting out love songs from the kitchen. Holly and Stella would be laughing as they stuffed the turkey and Dad would be gleefully sorting out glasses for the traditional Miller Christmas Eve drinks party which always kicked off between half eight and nine. Everyone came to the party; all the close family friends and relatives, half of Kinvarra almost. Mum and Dad had been hosting the party for as long as Tara could remember and it was like the official signal for Christmas to start. Entire families turned up, people were delighted at the opportunity to let their hair down, drink flew around at a fierce rate and such was the spirit of fun that people who’d originally apologised that they could only drop in for a moment would have to be decanted drunkenly into taxis at half eleven before the family went to midnight Mass.

It would all be incredible fun, with no pretensions. Her longing to be there overwhelmed Tara and she felt a lump swell in her throat. It was so easy to forget how important family were until you weren’t with them.

She tuned back into the here and now to overhear Serena, Gloria and Liz discussing clothes.

‘I love your dress,’ Gloria was saying warmly to Serena. ‘You can never go wrong with a little black dress and a nice gold necklace.’

Tara glanced over at Serena, who looked quite overshone, despite the LBD, by her flamboyant mother, but who did have a heavy gold necklace hanging from her neck. Tara was not a jewellery person, which was just as well because Finn certainly didn’t have the money to shell out on chunky gold stuff. They just about managed the mortgage and the bills on both their salaries: TV script writing wasn’t the money-spinner everyone thought it was. That was why Tara longed to get into writing for someone like Mike Hammond. She loved working on National Hospital, but if only she could work on a film script or one of the big-budget television adaptations that Mike was involved with, well, she’d be on the road to fame and fortune.

‘…well,’ her mother-in-law was saying, ‘these media types don’t put the same store on dressing up as we do.’ She lowered her voice. ‘They’re really quite casual, which can be inappropriate on occasion.’

Tara knew exactly who Gloria was referring to. Bitch. Double bitch.

She glared across the table at Finn who seemed oblivious to it all.

‘Does Sherry have a boyfriend?’ asked Charles, unable to get his mind off her.

‘No, rumour has it she’s a lesbian,’ snapped Tara, although the lie backfired because Charles drooled even more; no doubt at the notion of being sandwiched in bed between the beauteous Sherry and another stunning woman.

Trust him to be one of those blinkered men who saw gay women as some sort of kinky challenge. She’d have to tell him it was a joke. She gave up on Charles and turned to Pierre, who looked grey in the face and was trying to keep awake.

‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ she asked brightly.

Pierre fixed her with a glassy stare. ‘No,’ he said and turned back to his wine.

Think of tonight as research, Tara told herself firmly. Writers couldn’t write unless they observed. But despite her good intentions, separated from Finn and stuck in conversational limbo with Charles, the evening crawled past.

Pierre came out of himself enough to keep ordering bottles of wine but remained monosyllabic otherwise.

‘Poor darling Pierre is worn out,’ Liz admitted. ‘The pre-Christmas rush has been so busy. What about you, Tara? Do tell us all about the glamorous jet-set life. Do you get to see many stars?’

‘Sherry, the girl who plays Theodora, is a lesbian,’ interrupted Charles, sounding shocked.

Tara gasped theatrically. ‘Charles, you old tease. You know I was joking! She loves men.’

That shut Charles up. She turned to Liz. ‘I know them all,’ she sighed. ‘All the stars. We’re like one big, happy family.’ Ooops, another lie. The big television stars wouldn’t have any time for lowly script editors like herself.

‘Really.’ Liz leaned big bosoms on the table in her eagerness to hear all. Tara could see the young waiter’s eyes popping out of his head as Liz’s plunging dress front plunged further still. ‘You mean Daniel Anson, from Anson Interviews?’ Liz named one of the country’s biggest chat show hosts. ‘You know him?’

Tara nodded. Well, she had stood behind him in the canteen one day; that was almost meeting.

‘What’s he like?’

Tara thought about the contents of Daniel Anson’s tray that day: burger, chips, diet soft drink. He’d thrown his packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter onto the tray when he was searching for change.

‘Very normal,’ she said.

‘Tell us about Dr McCambridge on National Hospital.’ Serena looked animated for the first time all night.

‘He’s handsome,’ said Tara truthfully. ‘He has that special something that really works on camera…’

‘Animal magnetism,’ growled Serena.

Finn, who knew from Tara that the actor could be hard to work with, smothered a giggle. Tara smiled across at him. She could just about cope with the evening if Finn was with her.

‘Welcome back,’ she mouthed.

Finn raised his glass to her. He was going to have another hangover in the morning, Tara reflected.

It was just after eleven when the taxi deposited the Jeffersons back at Four Winds.

Tara, exhausted after an evening of trying to be polite under difficult circumstances, wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and cuddle up to Finn. But Finn and his father decided that liqueurs were the order of the day.

‘It’s less than an hour till twelve, let’s stay up and toast in Christmas,’ suggested Desmond.

‘Great idea.’ Finn fell onto the big grey armchair and held out his arms for Tara to sit on his lap. Mindful of Gloria seeing this as another breach of decorum, Tara sat on the side of the chair instead and put an arm round Finn’s shoulders.

Gloria disappeared on some errand.

‘What would you like, Tara?’ asked Desmond, poised over the drinks cabinet.

‘Er…’ Tara didn’t know. She generally drank wine and wasn’t fond of spirits apart from the odd gin and tonic. ‘Baileys?’ she hazarded, ‘in honour of the Bailey-Montfords? Maybe not.’ She grinned to herself. Baileys was creamy and smooth, while the B-Ms were hard to swallow.

She heard a shocked gasp and looked up to find Gloria had reappeared and was staring at her grimly.

‘Did I say that out loud?’ laughed Tara. She must have drunk more wine than she’d thought. ‘Sorry, Gloria.’

‘They’re nice people,’ said Desmond, peacemaking, ‘but it’s not easy to be catapulted into a group of people who know each other well. I’m sure you and Finn would have preferred to stay at home.’

He gave Tara a big crystal balloon of Baileys anyway and she took it with a murmured ‘thanks’, humbled by Desmond’s gentle reprimand.

Gloria asked frostily for a crème de menthe, ‘very small, please, Desmond,’ she said, shooting a poisonous look at Tara and her generous glass.

‘I’ll get mine, Dad,’ volunteered Finn. ‘I need to see what you’ve got.’

Desmond took his brandy over to the other big armchair and Tara watched while her husband fiddled around in the cabinet before pouring himself an enormous glass of Cointreau.

‘You’ll die in the morning,’ she whispered as he sat beside her.

‘I need to block out the arguments,’ he whispered back, nuzzling her ear. ‘Total inebriation is the only way.’

Everybody sat and sipped their drinks in silence.

‘This is nice,’ said Tara politely, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

‘It’s a pity you didn’t enjoy dinner.’ Gloria’s tone was glacial.

Tara shrugged. If Gloria wanted to be like that, it was her business.

‘Mums and Dad, did I tell you we’re going skiing in March?’ Finn said.

‘No, you didn’t. Good for you, son.’ Desmond was envious. ‘I love skiing.’

‘We’d half-planned to go at Christmas,’ Finn said, ‘but we didn’t want to let you down, of course,’ he added hastily.

Tara said nothing. She hated these stilted family conversations. In her home, everyone talked nineteen to the dozen about anything and everything. Not like this. It was as if Finn and his father were afraid to say the wrong thing in case they inadvertently upset Gloria.

Still, she glanced at her watch, another interminable forty minutes to go and it was officially Christmas Day, and they could all go to bed.

‘I hope it wasn’t too much of a sacrifice to give up skiing for Christmas with your father and me.’ Gloria’s voice dropped plaintively, ‘I feel that Christmas is for families.’ Her thin face was taut under its perfect layer of base.

‘We know that,’ Finn said easily. He never displayed even the slightest irritation with his mother. Tara wondered what the secret was.

Gloria sniffed as though she might possibly cry. Tara didn’t think tears could squeeze themselves out of the space between Gloria’s eye liner and her pinched little eyes.

‘I know it’s selfish of me, darling, but I love having my family around me at this time of year.’ She shot a venomous glance at Tara, who bridled. It was clear that Gloria didn’t include Tara in that sentence. Tara glared furiously at her mother-in-law. Then the little demon flicked on in Tara’s head.

Rose Miller would have recognised the wicked glint in her daughter’s eyes but Gloria carried on regardless.

‘As it’s your father’s first non-working Christmas, I thought the three of us should be together.’ Another martyred sigh.

Tara had had enough of her drink and decided she’d like a rapid exit. ‘Why doesn’t Fay ever come home for Christmas?’ she asked innocently.

It was worth it to see the look of horror on Gloria’s face. Even Finn looked a bit alarmed. Nobody mentioned Fay in front of his mother.

‘We do not speak of Fay,’ intoned Gloria icily.

Tara smiled as sympathetically as she could and put her head to one side. ‘That’s so sad, Gloria. It would be wonderful to forget the past and welcome Fay home. Christmas is for families, after all.’

Gloria’s face darkened.

‘Look at the time,’ said Desmond gently, getting to his feet. ‘We should get to bed or we’ll be tired tomorrow. Merry Christmas, everyone.’

He hugged Tara and Finn, then put his arm round his wife. ‘Come on Gloria dear, time for bed.’ He led her from the room and Tara turned in time to see Finn swallowing the last of his Cointreau.

‘Another one?’ he said, making for the cabinet.

‘No,’ Tara said, suddenly suffused with guilt. ‘Do you need one? Don’t you think we’ve had enough for one night?’

‘There’s no point blaming that little scene on you having too much to drink,’ Finn teased, pouring himself another. ‘Anyway, you’ve certainly found the ideal method of sending my mother to bed quickly.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tara apologised. ‘I didn’t mean to upset your dad.’

Desmond had looked so very sad at the mention of his daughter’s name.

Finn sat back with his drink. ‘Dad’s fine. He talks to Fay too, you know. He can e-mail quite happily from home because Mums never goes near the computer. You’re right, though, Fay should come home. She just wants Mums to suffer.’

Tara could identify with that.

‘There was no excuse for mentioning her,’ she added. ‘I feel bad. For your father’s sake.’ She didn’t regret any hurt to Gloria. She’d been asking for it.

‘Forget about it.’ Finn didn’t seem concerned.

She looked at him curiously. ‘How come you’re so laid-back about it all? Your mother drives me mad, but you never bat an eyelid.’

He shrugged. ‘You get used to her. She’s highly strung, that’s all and a stiff drink helps you deal with her.’

Tara mused silently on the concept of stringing her mother-in-law from somewhere high, then shook her head guiltily. She was turning into as bad a bitch as Gloria.

‘Anyway, that’s what I admire about you,’ Finn added. ‘You don’t pull your punches, Tara. You say what you think.’

Tara had a sudden vision of the ever-tactless Aunt Adele and shuddered. She’d have to watch her tongue or she’d turn into her aunt.

At the same moment in Kinvarra, a very drunk Mrs Freidland was objecting to being given a soft drink.

‘I’m having wine,’ she said loudly when Stella tried to hand her a tall glass of lemonade.

Not after the bottle and a half I must have served you already, thought Stella. ‘We’re stopping serving alcohol now, in honour of Christmas Day,’ she said gravely. ‘We always do at the end of the night.’

‘Weally?’ Mrs Freidland was fascinated at the very idea. How eccentric these Millers were. Still, it would be rude to argue and she felt very tired all of a sudden. She might just sit down and have a little rest. Or a sleep, even. Rose had lovely, comfy cushions on all her chairs.

Stella helped Mrs Freidland to a chair and peered around the room for Mr Freidland, who had originally said he and his wife would be driving to another party by ten. It was now half eleven. She spotted Mr Freidland in a corner with a glass of something ruby red which was definitely alcoholic.

The Kinvarra taxi men would make a fortune tonight. Rose always pre-booked and the drivers knew she’d make it worth their while with a decent tip.

With Mrs Freidland safely ensconced in a nest of cushions, Stella resumed her trip round the house to make sure that everybody had enough drinks. There were hordes of people, all chatting, laughing and eagerly eating Rose’s home-made canapés. Slipping through the crowd, Stella found her mother in the kitchen making coffee. Rose looked as immaculate as ever, her hair swept up and the soft copper colour of her v-necked dress bringing a gentle flush to her face. But Stella noticed that there was a weariness evident in her mother’s eyes. Rose had worked very hard to make the party a success, never stopping for so much as a bite to eat or more than a sip of water herself while her guests were there. Everyone else saw Rose Miller gliding through her lovely house, charming everyone and with a kind word to all. They didn’t see the heightened activity in the kitchen during the party, or the hectic preparations before.

‘You’re a bit of a swan, Mum,’ Tara would say fondly to her. ‘Serene on the surface with your legs going like mad underneath!’

Rose adored that comparison. It was a pity Tara wasn’t here tonight, Stella thought. It wasn’t the same without her, though Holly was doing the work of two: going round with a tray of food and drinks. And she looked marvellously festive in a slinky black lace dress with a Christmassy red silk flower in her hair and her lips glossed up in poinsettia scarlet.

‘Pre-sale,’ Holly had revealed delightedly when Stella admired the dress and the way it clung to her sister’s curves. ‘It was dead cheap because there’s a tear under one arm but I’ve fixed it. You know I don’t like things that are very fitted because they show off all the lumps and bumps, but Bunny said it suited me…’

‘What lumps and bumps?’ Stella had demanded. ‘I don’t think you should be allowed near Dad’s friends: they’ll all be grabbing you and saying you’ve turned into a beautiful woman.’

Holly laughed. ‘Some hope of that.’

Dear Holly. Stella wished with all her heart that she could give her sister a confidence transplant.

‘Should I ask the taxi firm to check on the whereabouts of the cars we’ve booked?’ she asked Rose now.

‘That might be an idea,’ her mother replied. ‘I meant to do it but I got tied up here…’

‘It’s OK, I’ll do it.’

‘I booked ten taxis for half eleven,’ said Rose, ‘but they’re bound to be a bit late tonight of all nights. Maybe you and Holly could round up the people who definitely shouldn’t be allowed to drive home and steer them in the direction of the hall.’

‘Mum looks a bit stressed,’ said Stella to Holly as they stood in the hall and waved goodbye to the Freidlands, the Wilsons, and a gang of other happy, swaying people, most of whom had dropped in ‘for half an hour’ several hours before.

‘I know,’ Holly said. ‘She was fine until she got a phone call an hour ago. She literally went white. To be honest, I thought Tara had been in an accident or something.’

‘Who was it?’ Stella asked curiously. She’d never even heard the phone ring.

‘I don’t know. It wasn’t anything to do with Tara. She said it was nothing. Probably a wrong number,’ she added.

Stella looked worried. ‘I hope Mum would tell us if there was anything wrong. But you know how determined she is to cope with everything herself. She’s as stubborn as a mule…’

‘How are my lovely girls?’ Their father’s best friend, Alastair Devon, came into the hall with Hugh and put an affectionate arm round both Holly and Stella.

‘Thank heavens at least there’s one guest leaving the premises sober,’ said Hugh jovially as he opened the hall door.

‘Somebody has to stay sensible,’ said Alastair, kissing both Holly and Stella goodbye. ‘This rabble have been drinking like there’s no tomorrow.’

‘I haven’t.’ Alastair’s wife, Angela, who had followed him from the party, sounded insulted.

Her husband grinned and took her hand in his. ‘Sorry, darling. There are two sensible people in the rabble.’

‘What about us?’ said Stella, grinning and gesturing at herself and Holly.

Hugh ushered Alastair out the door. ‘Get out of here before you get lynched, Alastair. You know we can never say the right thing with women.’

Slowly, the guests went home and the family were left alone. Glasses and crumpled up napkins littered every available surface and Stella sighed at the thought of clearing it all up. Parties were wonderful but the aftermath was not.

‘I’ll get started here,’ Rose said, picking up a tray. ‘We don’t need to leave for midnight mass for another ten minutes.’

‘No, you won’t,’ said Stella firmly, taking the tray from her mother. ‘You have a rest and beautify yourself. I don’t have to get ready, so I can do this.’ She was staying at home with Amelia who, despite begging to be allowed up with the grown-ups, was fast asleep in bed.

For once, Rose acquiesced. ‘Thanks, Stella love.’

‘Mummy, is it time?’ said a sleepy voice from the doorway. Amelia, eyes crinkled with tiredness, stood there fully dressed in purple corduroy trousers and an embroidered lilac jumper. She must have been awoken by the sounds of people leaving. ‘I’m a big girl now, can’t I go with you?’

Rose sat with her family in a middle pew of the soaring Kinvarra cathedral and stared at the altar. Amelia leaned against Rose with her eyes half-closed.

‘Grown-ups get to go to see Baby Jesus in the crib for the first time,’ she’d said miserably earlier. ‘Why can’t I go? Becky and Shona get to go. I’m not a baby.’

‘You’ll be too tired,’ Stella had said.

‘I won’t,’ Amelia was insistent.

‘She wants to,’ Rose said, ‘why not let her. You can sit beside me, Amelia, and we’ll cuddle.’

Amelia had sat wide-eyed and alert beside her grandmother at first but now tiredness was getting to her. Even the thought of seeing the Baby Jesus in his crib couldn’t keep her awake and she snuggled into Rose’s soft camelhair good coat.

On the other side of Rose sat Holly, who didn’t look terribly awake either. Holly leaned in the direction of her father, who sat at the edge of the pew. She adored her father, Rose knew, and was closer to him than she was to Rose. In times of trouble, Holly had always run to Hugh.

From the corner of her eye, Rose could see her husband’s proud head, his bearing upright and proper even at midnight. Hugh looked as if he was concentrating totally on the service, although Rose knew from experience that Hugh’s mind could be miles away however attentive he looked.

Rose knew that her eyes always gave her away if she didn’t pay attention, no matter how carefully she schooled her expression. She stared at the altar and thought about the phone call that had exploded into her Christmas Eve party like a hand grenade.

It was a miracle she’d heard the phone at all, what with the noise of the guests and the sound of Sinatra crooning old hits.

‘I’m looking for Hugh,’ said the voice on the phone. A woman.

‘Well, hold on…’ Rose had picked up the phone in the hallway so she carried it a few yards so she could look into the living room. She could see Hugh’s silver head towering above most of their guests. He was in the middle of a group of people near the piano and she couldn’t really interrupt him. She hoped Hugh didn’t start a singsong. It always took hours to persuade people to sing and twice as long to shut them up. Nobody would leave until the wee, small hours if the piano got going.

‘I’m afraid Hugh can’t come to the phone right now,’ she said politely. ‘Can I take a message?’ Even as she said it, Rose thought how odd it was that any caller to their home wouldn’t recognise who she was and say ‘Hello, Rose.’ Unless it was business, of course, and it could hardly be a business call at ten o’ clock on Christmas Eve.

‘I need to speak to him.’ The woman was insistent and there was something else in her voice, something Rose couldn’t quite identify.

‘We’re having a party,’ Rose explained, still polite. ‘I can’t get him for you now. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave a message? If it’s an urgent legal matter, I can give you the number of someone else from Miller and Lowe.’ She’d picked up a pen by now, ready to write a message on the notepad, although she couldn’t imagine anything so urgent it would require legal assistance right now.

‘No message,’ the woman said silkily. ‘It’s not business. Thank you.’

Rose stood listening to the dial tone. She put the receiver back slowly.

Holly was coming downstairs with some coats. ‘Are you all right, Mum?’ she asked urgently. ‘Was that bad news? It’s not something wrong with Tara, is it?’

‘Nothing like that.’ Rose managed a faint smile. ‘Just a mistake. Now, I must rush and check the oven.’ She flew into the kitchen, shut the door and sat down on the bench seat under the picture window, feeling a cold sweat emerge all over her body. She knew what had been nagging her about the woman’s voice, she knew the unidentified ingredient: mockery.

At noon on Christmas Day, Stella and Amelia drove to Adele’s house to pick her up for lunch. Amelia, thrilled to have got a bumper haul from Santa, not to mention a pink typewriter from the absent Tara and Finn, could only be torn away from her new possessions with bribery.

‘Aunt Adele has your present under her tree and she might forget it if you don’t come with me to pick it up,’ Stella had said disingenuously.

‘Sure, Mum,’ said Amelia, instantly getting up from where she was laboriously typing her name for the tenth time. ‘What did she get me?’

Rose and Stella’s eyes met.

‘Something lovely, I’m sure,’ Rose reassured her.

Hugh would have gone with them but he’d woken up with a sore throat and was sitting in front of the box with his feet up, being mollycoddled by Holly.