Erin Kaye - The Art of Friendship

A loud rap on the door saved her. ‘Janice, are you in there?’ said her husband’s voice.

‘Yes, Keith!’ she shouted in response. The women collapsed into a spate of girlish sniggering, like they’d been caught smoking behind the bike sheds at school.

‘Who’s in there with you?’ said Keith, not waiting for her to answer and sounding slightly peeved. ‘You’ve been gone ages. People are wondering where you are.’

Janice peered at the gold Rolex on her arm and said, in a stage whisper, ‘Shit! Is that the time?’ She pulled herself to her feet, hoisted her long black velvet dress to her knees and stepped gingerly out of the bath. ‘It’s just me and the girls in here, Keith,’ she shouted. ‘We’re coming.’

And then to the other women she added in what she thought was a whisper, ‘Come on, girls. It’s gone eleven.’

They filed sheepishly out of the bathroom into the bedroom, where Keith stood with a smile on his face, but not in his eyes. At fifty-two, he was fourteen years older than Janice but he still had the build of a rugby player – stocky legs, broad shoulders and muscled arms. He wore smart dark blue jeans with a brown belt and soft chocolate suede shoes. His white shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. His greying hair suited his tanned face – by anyone’s standards, he was a handsome man.

‘What were you doing in there?’ he whispered, as he took Janice proprietarily by the elbow and steered her along the landing after the others.

‘Not so fast, Keith,’ she protested, shaking off his hand. ‘I can’t walk in these heels.’

‘You can’t just go off in the middle of a party and leave me like that,’ he persisted.

She stopped to face him at the top of the stairs. Down below in the hallway, people milled about, the sound of their chatter rising like a chorus, and the rhythmic beat of tooloud music filling the air. In heels she and Keith were on a level, nose to nose. She could see from the softness in his hazel eyes that he wasn’t really angry with her. Just a little annoyed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise we were in there so long.’

‘But you’re neglecting the other guests.’

The truth was Janice didn’t really care about the other guests. She wanted to spend time with her best friends. Most of the people downstairs were business contacts of Keith’s. Though she would never admit this to her husband, she found them intimidating. They were lawyers, barristers, doctors and the like – all the well-heeled of Ballyfergus. She felt intellectually inferior to them.

‘Aren’t the staff doing their job?’ she said, referring to the caterers they’d hired in for the night to serve food and drinks.

‘Yes. But that’s not the point, Janice. You’re the hostess and it’s rude to abandon your guests.’

Janice opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. He was right of course. And then she remembered, as she had done every single day for the last fifteen years, what she owed him. This knowledge didn’t loom large over their marriage – and no doubt rarely crossed Keith’s mind, if at all. But it was never far from Janice’s, and it moderated all her thoughts and actions. She did not resent Keith because of the debt she owed him, far from it. She was inordinately grateful. But it was there nonetheless.

‘Janice?’ said Keith.

‘Huh?’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Nothing,’ she said brightly and smiled. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t…think. It was rude of me. Come on, let’s go down.’

‘Just a moment,’ he said, reaching out to flick a lock of dark chestnut hair off her shoulder. ‘Have I told you that you look gorgeous tonight?’

‘Thank you,’ she replied automatically and returned a frozen smile, self-conscious and awkward. Keith’s frequent compliments had her spoiled. So often had he told her he loved her and that she was beautiful, that she had become immune to his praise. It wasn’t that she doubted the sincerity of his words. They just did not penetrate the surface of her, as though they were arrows meant for some other target, someone more worthy.

‘There you are, Janice! Keith!’ came the sound of Patsy’s voice from the bottom of the stairs, demanding their attention. ‘You’ve got to come and see this. Hurry up!’

‘We’d better go down,’ said Janice, without looking back, and she picked her way down the steps. At the bottom, Patsy grabbed her by the hand and pulled her in the direction of the large drawing room. When she glanced over her shoulder Keith, swallowed up by the crowd, was nowhere to be seen.

Patsy led her into what used to be the playroom. Now that Pete was nearly eighteen, it served as a second, more informal, lounge. Someone had pulled both of the black leather sofas into the centre of the room facing each other, thereby switching the focus from the big flat-screen TV in the corner to the coffee table between the sofas. There were a dozen or so people in the room.

Patsy let go of Janice’s hand and, sauntering her way across the cream shag-pile carpet, called out, ‘Don’t start without us!’

Janice spotted Martin sitting on the edge of the sofa fiddling with his mobile phone, his huge feet like plates on the floor. His legs were so long his bony knees jutted up awkwardly, like he had been badly folded. Skinny as the lamp in the corner, he had a tousled mop of brown curly hair and a long, thin face. Physically he was not Janice’s cup of tea, but he was a great guy. And, in spite of the physical differences between him and his curvy wife, they were a perfect match for each other. Patsy hopped onto the arm of the sofa, put her arm round Martin’s shoulder and kissed the top of his head. He looked up and winked, beaming.

‘Come over here, Janice,’ said Patsy, waving her across the room with an urgent flapping of her right arm. Janice went and stood behind Martin so that the coffee table was in clear view.

‘This’ll never work,’ said Martin.

‘Give it a chance,’ said Liam, Clare’s husband, who sat opposite him.

Liam’s slight build and boyish face made him seem younger than a man in his late thirties. This impression was reinforced by his bright periwinkle eyes and, when he became very animated, the peculiar and entirely unconscious habit of raising the pitch of his voice. Clare and Kirsty, who were almost the same age and great friends, had gravitated towards each other and now stood talking behind the sofa. They each held a fresh glass of white wine in their hands and paid no attention to what was going on around them. Even though Janice was only a few years older than them, she had more in common with Patsy – perhaps because, unlike Clare and Kirsty, they both had grown-up children.

Liam spotted Janice and said, ‘Great party, Janice. Come here and see this.’ He pointed to the table where three mobile phones were laid out in an arc.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Janice, perplexed.

‘A party trick! Just watch,’ declared Liam with gusto. ‘Ah, there you are. Thanks, Pete.’

At the mention of her son’s name, Janice looked up, surprised. Under his choppy highlighted hairstyle his face was lightly freckled and his delicate frame was bony under a t-shirt and low-slung jeans. He dropped a handful of caramel-coloured kernels into Liam’s hand, a half-smile on his face. Or smirk, depending how you looked at it.

‘Right. We’re ready to rock,’ said Liam. ‘Just need one more mobile phone.’

Another phone hastily appeared. Liam placed it on the table with the others so that they formed an even-armed cross shape, with a space in the middle. The top of each phone was six inches from the one opposite. Liam said, ‘Now call each mobile on my signal.’