this to be perfect for Debra and if a different bridesmaid’s dress makes it perfect, then so be it.’
Gwen regarded her younger sister solemnly. Their mother had been a great woman for what she called ‘plain speaking’.
‘Blunt as hell,’ Lizzie and Gwen used to agree. Both had made conscious efforts to live their lives without resorting to such bluntness. In Lizzie’s case, this had translated into a gentleness with other people and a sharp sense of intuition, although this was strangely lacking when it came to her own immediate family, her sister fondly thought.
While Gwen knew herself to be straightforward, she always made an effort not to hurt anyone with her remarks. But today, watching good, kind Lizzie making a fool out of herself with that spoiled brat of a daughter of hers, Gwen itched to speak plainly.
‘I hate to see you both spend so much money on this wedding,’ she said, trying to be delicate.
‘If you can’t spend money on your only daughter’s wedding, then what can you spend it on?’ said Lizzie easily.
‘But, Lizzie –’ Gwen broke off, not wanting to give a speech along the lines of her mother’s: if Debra was a decent kid, she’d understand that her parents didn’t have much cash to spare and would tailor her plans accordingly. Did Debra have any idea how much penny-pinching had gone on to give her this big, glitzy wedding?
‘I’d love Debra to have a big day too,’ said Gwen, trying her best to find some middle line without being too critical. ‘But money does come into it, Lizzie, and maybe you should tell Debra that you can’t afford to spend quite so much…’
‘Stop worrying,’ replied Lizzie equably. ‘Course we can afford it. Debra deserves her big day.’
That was what was wrong with her sister, Gwen thought. Lizzie had so much time for other people that she neglected herself. She hadn’t even noticed what was happening in her own marriage. Now, she poured her energy into the kids or, more realistically, Debra, since Joe was away and, anyhow, didn’t need looking after. There was nothing else in her life.
‘Why don’t you come with us on the cruise?’ Gwen said urgently. ‘There’s still time to book. They always have cancellations, and you never know.’
‘No, Gwen,’ said her sister firmly. ‘This is your big holiday. And besides,’ she pulled her coat from the back of the café chair, ‘I can’t afford it. Next year I’ll have my holiday of a lifetime and scandalise you all by learning exotic dancing or something!’
‘Shay has a bit put by for a rainy day,’ insisted Gwen. ‘You could pay us back. I’d love you to have a break.’
‘Thanks but no thanks. I told you, Gwen, next year,’ said Lizzie. ‘Next year will be my year.’
She shot her sister a strong, happy smile but it took some doing. In her heart, Lizzie didn’t think next year was going to be her year any more than this one was. She was so firmly in a rut that she’d need climbing equipment to get out. She had absolutely no idea how to solve the problem, but she did know that spending money she didn’t have would not help.
The other travellers boarding flight NR 706 from Chicago to Cork that Saturday morning watched the tall elegant young couple with interest. They were definitely both somebody, even though they wore comfortable faded jeans and didn’t make a fuss or anything when there was a horrendous queue down the gangway because the plane was delayed.
Martine Brady, flying home to Cork after a colder-than-expected month in the States staying with her sister, watched them enviously. She hadn’t seen a single famous person in all her time here. Not even a glimpse of Oprah, and she was supposed to be Chicagoan through and through. Martine, five people behind the glamorous couple in the queue, and bored, watched them with naked curiosity.
The woman was someone from the television, for sure. Her auburn hair was glossier than a Kentucky thoroughbred’s coat, her fine-boned face was clear-skinned and subtly made up. And that camel overcoat she wore to keep out the Chicago chill was definitely cashmere. Martine would have loved a coat like that, though you had to be tall and slim to wear it well. And rich. A newsreader, that was it. She looked like a newsreader – all polished and intelligent, even though she couldn’t have been but a few years older than Martine’s twenty-five. She wasn’t a movie star, Martine decided. Movie stars were always perfectly beautiful and this woman wasn’t. Her nose was too big and her face was just a bit too long. She was more interesting-looking than beautiful. The man was good-looking but not quite as polished. His coat was a bulky navy greatcoat that would have dwarfed most men but he was tall and broad enough to get away with it. His hair was jet black and cut close to his skull. Maybe he was some famous sportsman Martine didn’t recognise – a footballer or something. Those American footballers were all built like tanks. They were certainly Americans, that was for definite. Rich American women had a certain, unmistakable gloss to them, and Martine wondered how you could recreate it back home. All those manicures and visits to get your hair blow-dried every five minutes.
The queue moved and the couple boarded the plane. As they stepped on, the man smiled at his partner to let her go first, an excited smile that made it entirely clear to Martine that the couple weren’t married at all but were business people going on a trip and they had more than business in mind. The woman’s eyes gleamed as she smiled back at him. Bingo! thought Martine. She imagined dinner in fancy restaurants and then afterwards, the lure of the office romance would be too much for them and they’d end up in one bedroom, drinking champagne and trying not to answer the phone because it would be someone from home calling and the guilt would kill them and…
‘Your seat number, please?’ asked the stewardess.
Martine dragged her eyes back from the business-class section where the couple had just been shown to their seats.
‘Fifty-six,’ she said, returning to the real world.
‘Right-hand side, down the back,’ smiled the stewardess.
‘Down the back,’ repeated Martine. One day, one day, she’d be sitting up the front just like that woman with the gleaming copper hair and the gorgeous companion.
Erin took off her new cashmere coat and stroked it with something approaching awe. It was the most beautiful item of clothing she’d ever owned in her whole life and she still shuddered to think how much it had cost. Greg had arrived home with it the previous night, exquisitely folded in acid-free tissue paper in a huge Bloomingdale’s box.
‘A going-away present to say thank you for coming with me to Ireland,’ he said, kissing her.
‘This must have cost an arm and several legs,’ Erin breathed as she slipped on the coat. ‘It’s gorgeous, Greg.’ She looked at herself in the mirror of the wardrobe, which, being fitted, was one of the few pieces of furniture now left in the apartment since everything had been shipped the day before. The coat flattered her slim figure, transforming her instantly from an ordinary woman in jeans and a sweatshirt into a lady who looked as if she wore designer labels right down to her underwear.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said again, ‘but we can’t afford it.’
They weren’t broke but they weren’t far off it. They certainly couldn’t afford cashmere coats. Erin’s two-year-old black wool would have done her fine for a while yet.
‘New coat for a new beginning,’ Greg insisted. ‘And you want to wow them at home, don’t you?’
Now she began to fold the coat carefully so she could stow it on top of her carry-on bag in the overhead locker, but a pretty blonde stewardess appeared and said she’d hang it up.
‘It’s too beautiful to get creased,’ the stewardess said.
‘Isn’t it?’