She laughs and shakes her head. ‘No. I don’t, but the fact that you can do it proves in itself you have talent. And if you can write proficiently with that level of material, then you can absolutely write a damn article about our weekend in Donegal. But do you know what,evenif this one article is not for her, she still wants you to write a column. There will be other articles. Hang in there. This is your first go.’
Laura is right, of course. But I don’t know how to get across that while this is my first go, there is a part of me that just needs it to be a winner. More than anything I have ever needed in my career before. Maybe that’s naïve of me, or ridiculously self-obsessed, but it’s how I feel nonetheless.
I want it to be good for me, of course. And for Grace. But I want it to also be a winner for Peggy, and Deirdre and all the women who danced around that bonfire on a cold January night a week ago.
‘I know,’ I say, cursing my phone for not ringing and trying to tell myself that maybe it’s because it took a mud bath earlier in the week. Yes, the rice worked. I will never doubt the power of rice again. But what if it only partially worked and for some weird, mud-related reason it now blocks all calls and/or emails from Grace?
‘You’re overthinking it,’ Laura says, interrupting my overthinking with impeccable timing.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘Honestly. I do. It’s a curse. One I need to work on.’
The tinkle of the bell above the door draws our attention to Niamh, who is making her way back to us with a smile on her face. ‘Deirdre’s in,’ she says.
‘In?’ I ask. ‘Here?’ I look around.
‘No. For the club! Or the group. Or the bunch of friends. Whatever you want to call it,’ Niamh says.
Nope. I’m still lost – a fact that is clearly written all over my face.
‘Remember last week? At the retreat? We said wouldn’t it be great if there was somewhere to do things like that together on the regular? That it can be hard to make friends in your forties and beyond?’
Ah, well, that does sound familiar for sure. It had simply been lost in the craziness of the week that has passed.
‘Oh, yes, I remember,’ Laura says. ‘I liked the sound of that.’
‘I haven’t had a moment to think about it,’ I say, opting for an honesty-is-the-best-policy approach. ‘Do you have actual plans?’
Niamh Cassidy might be the only woman in the world who could have a nervous breakdown, support her daughter through a threatened miscarriage and form a club for lonely middle-aged women all in the one week.
‘Well, not so much, but Deirdre wants to get on board. And I think, you know, we should invite her out with us. It doesn’t have to be anything mad. But we like her. Don’t we? And she’s good craic. It could be something really positive for all of us, and God knows we could use all the positive we can find right now.’
Just as she says those very words, my phone illuminates, with proof that there has been no Grace-blocking, mud-related anomaly. Her name is there, and she is calling. And I know I have to answer it.
42
SH*TE THE TIGHTS
‘Shite the tights!’ I say, turning the phone towards the girls. Clearly I say it a little too loudly and it attracts the attention of some of the other customers, who don’t look too impressed with my uncouth language. I raise my hands and mouth a quick sorry, while my face blazes once again. What must they think of me? This grown woman who almost dies eating cake then shouts about ‘shiting the tights’ in a lovely café.
But there is no more suitable expression than the one designed specifically to describe the level of nervousness where you feel as if the contents of your bowels could literally fall out of your arse.
I shuffle through the tables, mouthing my apology again as I go, until I am outside in the cool air and I can hear Grace Adams asking if I can hear her down the line.
‘Sorry. Sorry, Grace. I was just in the Green Cat there and wanted to come outside to be able to hear you properly,’ I stutter.
‘Oh, I love that place. Best. Scones. Ever,’ she says – so very casually it’s hard to imagine she realises just how much of my future happiness she holds in her hands right at this very minute. And yes, I know that I am being extra dramatic but it feels extra dramatic.
‘Yes. The very best. I’ve been meeting a couple of friends for coffee.’
There’s a squeak in the background, as if she is moving in her office chair. Perhaps getting more comfortable before she breaks my heart.
‘Is it Laura and Niamh?’ she asks. ‘Are you meeting your fellow retreat goers? I remember the three of you from school. Joined at the hip, you were. Seems you still are.’
‘Yes, yes. It’s Laura and Niamh and yes, we’re still close.’ I stop myself from immediately launching into a prolonged over-sharing of our back story, the big falling-out, the reunion and the drama of thesituation.
‘Clearly. That really came across in your piece. Look, I’m really sorry?—’
My heart plummets.
