‘Light and airy,’ said one of her old pals, Peadar, who did his best as a painter and sold ugly landscapes to tourists who knew nothing about art. It paid the bills, he liked to say.
He’d brought a litre of said botanical gin to the party because he said the Barn had very dull drinks, no decent wine and only old slop of punch. No way Lillian and their crew would manage a whole night drinking what the plebs were drinking. Typical Lou, to have her fiftieth in such a whimsically pretty location without a decent bar. Before she’d heard about the award – and Lillian’s jaw ached from grinding her teeth at the very thought of Concepta winning it – Peadar had been pouring jam jars of the gin for the four of them. Then someone had come in and, this is where it got hazy, Lillian had heard the news. Who’d told her? Was it Ivanka who made those felted pictures? God, she hated felted pictures. They were so twee.
Lillian knew that news of the Kennedy going to Concepta – fifty grand to that derivative cow who’d never had an original thought in her life! – had made her angry, as it bloody would. Then Gloria, stupid do-gooder, had tried to calm her down. Grabbing a basket in the supermarket, Lillian’s nostrils flared at the thought of Gloria telling her to shut up. When had she ever listened to her bloody sister-in-law?
As she sailed past the vegetable aisle on her way to the ready meals, Lillian thought she saw a couple of women staring at her. Jess, that busybody from the bakery, was one of them. She wasn’t staring in the way Lillian liked to be stared at, either. Not an ‘aren’t you fabulous, feminist sister, standing up for older women!’ sort of look. No. More of an ‘are you daring to show your face in public?’ sort of stare. Lillian didn’t like that.
She glared back at the women, stuck her tongue out and then stomped off to get something to eat. Carbs and cheese, she decided. Some homemade Italian thing, perhaps, and damn the diet. It was hard keeping the old waist slim once one hit seventy, but to hell with diets.
She’d get wine too. She hadn’t planned to because yesterday’s hangover had been monumental. That type of newly distilled gin was always lethal, but until she had a vague feeling about what had really happened on Friday, a few glasses of vino would help. On her way back to the checkout, she might stick her tongue out at those two bitches again. That would show them. Nobody snubbed Lillian Cooper and got away with it.
For a brief moment, she thought of Lou. Where the hell was she? Lillian needed her. Whatever had gone on at the party. Lou would get over it, surely?
A fragment of memory infiltrated Lillian’s consciousness.
Angelo. She had talked about him. She’d sworn to keep the secret to her grave. Bob had begged her. It was hard to remember Friday properly. There had been a lot of gin. After the party, they’d had wine in the Gin Palace, which she hated but which had a decent bar and that hot Italian boy running the place.
‘You went a bit near the knuckle, Lillian, my darling,’ Harry had said cheerfully when they were on their third bottle.
‘Never explain, never apologise,’ Lillian had said loudly.
Whatever she’d said or whatever she’d done, Lou would get over it. And hopefully soon, because the house was a bit of a mess. Dog hair everywhere from that damned Monty, and every glass in the house used. She’d be drinking wine out of teacups next.
Lou would sort it out. She always did.
They’d stayed the night in a big hotel on the outskirts of Boyle in County Roscommon and now Lou sat in the hammam in the swimsuit she’d bought in the hotel spa reception and wondered what she had been doing to miss out on this sort of feeling all her life.
‘I adore this,’ Lou said to her sister, allowing herself to luxuriate in the feeling of bonelessness that came from blissful wet heat after an invigorating swim.
Toni had insisted on them getting up early on Sunday morning and using the hotel’s facilities.
‘They’ve an adult’s pool as well as a children’s one, a hot tub, and – bliss! A hammam!’
‘We’ve nothing to wear,’ said Lou.
Toni had stared at her.
‘We can’t swim nude,’ Lou added.
‘We can buy swimsuits,’ said Toni, as if she was talking to a child.
‘Pardon me for not knowing how to behave in swanky hotels,’ said Lou, slightly stung.
Somehow, they got down to the pool area without fighting and then, in their new suits, swam lengths. Instantly, all irritation fled.
Lou had not swum for a long time and she remembered that she loved it, slicing through the water in silence, feeling her body move like a seal was almost as good as meditation. Even better was the hammam.
‘I have to get out,’ gasped Toni. ‘It’s getting too hot for me. Coming?’
‘No,’ said Lou, stretching languorously. ‘It’s still perfect.’
When was the last time she’d done anything like this? Years. Years since she’d taken time out to do anything as physically relaxing. She and Mim had swum in the hotel pool on a weekend away in Florence some years ago. They’d taken Emily and Simone, who were both studying art history.
‘Time in the Uffizi is what we need,’ Mim had said. ‘Think of how you can make sense of the Renaissance there by seeing the paintings in the flesh.’
‘Is there an outlet mall nearby?’ Simone had asked wickedly. ‘We could spend time there too ... I need some retail research in the flesh!’
It had been a glorious weekend.
