Erin Kaye - The Art of Friendship

For the ‘Fabulous Four’ who inspired this story.

Cover Page

Title Page Art of Friendship Erin Kaye

Dedication For the ‘Fabulous Four’ who inspired this story.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Reading Group Guide for The Art of Friendship

Artwork To Follow

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

People said that time heals all wounds. But Janice Kirkpatrick knew that wasn’t true. She could remember every minute of that New Year’s Eve – the one just after she’d turned eleven – as though it were yesterday. She bit her lip, closed her eyes and, by sheer force of will, made the memories disappear. Just as she had done for the last twenty-seven years.

She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the present. It was the thirty-first of December and she was locked in the en-suite bathroom with her dearest friends – Patsy, Clare and Kirsty. Downstairs, the party was in full swing, the thud of a glam rock hit from the seventies reverberating through the thick walls of the house in Ballyfergus.

‘Okay. Who’s going to make their New Year’s resolution first?’ asked Patsy, a buxom, petite blonde perched on the lid of the closed bidet, her satin peep-toes the colour of bubble-gum. She hiccupped and slapped her hand over her mouth. Janice and the other two women giggled, the sudden exhalation of their breath causing the flames of nearby candles to flicker.

Janice, who was lying in the empty claw-foot bathtub, a champagne flute held aloft, felt suddenly uneasy. She wasn’t in the habit of making resolutions, not public ones anyway.

‘Aren’t you supposed to keep them a secret?’ asked Clare, at thirty-five, the youngest woman in the room. She had one of those faces that could, with the right grooming, look striking. But in spite of all Janice’s encouragement and advice over the years, Clare just wasn’t cut out to be a glamourpuss. Tonight, enthroned on the closed toilet seat, she wore a plain black dress and sensible low heels, her long brown hair tied back severely in a diamanté clasp – her only apparent concession to the festive season.

‘No,’ said Patsy, waving the objection away with her hand and coming perilously close to spilling champagne on her black pencil skirt. ‘Sure, if we can’t tell each other,’ she said, stopping to suppress another hiccup, ‘who can we tell?’

Janice didn’t like New Year’s Eve and the retrospection and sentimentality that accompanied it. And the alcohol she’d consumed wasn’t quite enough, yet, to obliterate all the dark thoughts. The idea of hosting the party – which she did every year – was to fill the house with noise and laughter in an effort to displace the depressing nostalgia she always associated with this night. However, she was well aware that her three closest friends had a more optimistic take on life and resolved to humour them.

‘How about you, Kirsty?’ said Janice, addressing the woman seated cross-legged on the laundry bin, a solid teak chest specially imported from Thailand. It suited the oriental theme of the black-and-grey tiled room – Janice’s serene retreat from the world beyond. But before Kirsty had time to answer, Janice added, ‘I know what your resolution should be.’

‘You do? Oh, don’t tell me. Let me guess. Time for me to get myself a man,’ said Kirsty, rolling her pretty grass-coloured eyes. Unlike Clare, Kirsty’s natural beauty did not require much in the way of enhancement. Tonight she wore little more than mascara and lip gloss and she looked gorgeous in a green halter-neck dress that matched the colour of her eyes and complemented the autumnal reddish tone of her shoulder-length hair. She could do with being a tiny little bit thinner – if she was a size eight, like Janice, and a tad taller, she would be model material.

‘Not exactly,’ laughed Janice. ‘But it is time for you to have some fun. Time to get out and about and start dating. You need to remind yourself that you’re a woman.’

‘I know I’m a woman,’ tutted Kirsty good-naturedly, swiping her hand in Janice’s direction. ‘I don’t need a man to find that out.’

‘Janice’s right enough, though,’ said Patsy, who was the oldest of the group, a full decade older than Kirsty and fancied herself a bit of an agony aunt. ‘It might do you good to get out and meet new people,’ she said euphemistically, though what she really meant by ‘people’ was men. She pulled herself up to her full seated height, the buttons of her grey satin blouse, the colour of Janice’s eyes, straining against her large bosom. Patsy’s eyes, the grey-green colour of the sea on a dull day, twinkled with mischief.

Kirsty let out a soft sigh and smiled, her eyes moist in the candlelight. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ she said and immediately Janice regretted any pain she might have inadvertently caused. But before she could speak, Kirsty cleared her throat, raised her champagne glass and said gamely, ‘My New Year’s resolution is to…to get out more and date.’

‘Too vague,’ said Clare.

Kirsty’s hand dropped to her side in frustration and she looked imploringly at Janice and Patsy. ‘What should I say then?’

Janice spoke first. ‘Clare’s right. You need to be more specific. How about saying that this year you will date at least ten men?’

‘Ten?’ gasped Kirsty incredulously.

‘Steady on, Janice!’ said Patsy, almost choking on a mouthful of champagne. She pointed at Kirsty. ‘Where in the name of God is she going to meet ten decent men? Have you seen what passes for eligible bachelors in Ballyfergus?’

‘Point taken,’ said Janice with a giggle. ‘How about five, then?’ Patsy raised her right eyebrow just a fraction and Janice rolled her eyes.

‘Okay. Four. Come on! That’s only one a quarter. Surely you could manage that? Unless of course the first one turns out to be The One and then you don’t have to date any more!’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ said Kirsty with a wry smile and then, more upbeat, she added, ‘Okay then. This year I will date at least four eligible bachelors.’

‘Great. Well done, Kirsty,’ said Patsy, sounding like a proud mum.

‘Okay, someone else now,’ said Kirsty, looking pleased to have her turn, like a visit to the dentist, over and done with.

‘Kirsty, darling, do the honours,’ said Janice, presenting an empty crystal glass to Kirsty who reached into the icefilled sink and pulled out a bottle of Bollinger. Using a fluffy hand-towel to capture the beads of water that ran off the bottle like perspiration, she refilled Janice’s glass.

‘Thank you, sweetheart.’

‘Anyone else for a top-up?’ asked Kirsty and, in response to the murmurs of assent, she proceeded to dispense the effervescent straw-coloured liquid in the over-careful manner of the mildly inebriated. When everyone’s glass was filled to the brim, she put the empty bottle back in the sink, alongside the one they’d finished earlier.

‘So, what about you, Patsy?’ said Kirsty. ‘What’s your resolution going to be?’

‘Well, you know I’ve always wanted to go to Africa and on safari?’