The Art of Friendship. Erin Kaye

round the menus. ‘Let’s order quickly, shall we? The kitchen closes in half an hour.’

      Once the food was ordered and they all had a drink in front of them Kirsty asked, ‘So what did you think of the competition, Clare?’

      Clare downed a third of a glass of white wine before answering. She was more casually dressed than the others in black jeans and a patterned shirt. Around her neck, on a green leather thong, she wore a piece of pink shell sculpted into the shape of a flower. As usual her face was bare of make-up, and her long brown hair was freshly washed and fell around her shoulders like a waterfall. Over the years Clare had put on the pounds and it did not suit her. She had been prettier when she was slimmer. ‘Well, Paul Holmes’s got talent, that’s for sure.’ Clare let out a long sigh. ‘I’m not sure my work’s up to that standard.’

      ‘Oh, don’t say that,’ said Kirsty, loyally. ‘You paint just as well. Better even.’ If Clare had a fault it was that she fluctuated wildly between confidence and self-doubt – and more often the latter. She was always putting herself down. ‘How’s the studio?’

      ‘The studio’s fantastic,’ said Clare, enthusiasm returning to her voice. ‘Complete peace and no interruptions from screaming kids! So far I’ve managed a couple of evenings and a few hours on Sundays.’

      Janice smiled broadly.

      ‘And how’s the painting coming on?’ asked Patsy.

      ‘The painting…’ Clare’s voice trailed off. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Well, let’s just say I’m a bit rusty.’

      ‘We just need to get you oiled then!’ cried Janice, laughing. ‘Speaking of which,’ she added, raised a glass and took a long drink. ‘That’s better.’ Clare almost finished her wine.

      Janice looked round at the others and said, ‘Seriously though, Clare showed me and Patsy what she’d done and it was good. As good as what you were painting four years ago, Clare. Isn’t that right, Patsy?’

      Patsy shook her head distractedly. ‘I’m sorry. What did you say?’

      ‘I said, Clare’s work is good, isn’t it?’

      ‘It is so,’ said Patsy, nursing her glass and staring at Clare. ‘Do you know what I think, Clare? I think you’re too hard on yourself. Way too hard.’

      Clare blushed, and looked at a spot on the floor which she rubbed with the toe of her brown boot.

      ‘I know what we should do!’ exclaimed Patsy and everyone said, ‘What?’ at the same time.

      ‘I think we should plan an exhibition for you.’

      ‘No,’ said Clare with a gasp, and she put the tips of her fingers to her lips. Her nails were badly bitten and her hands work-worn – the scourge not only of mothers of young children but artists too.

      Patsy cocked her head to one side. ‘I’m thinking something pretty low-key, maybe in conjunction with another artist. Someone who works in a different medium. Mmm, let me think…’ She sat back in the tub chair and was quiet for a few moments, then came to life again. ‘I know. I was hoping to do a wee exhibition for Bronson in the spring.’ She was referring to an old friend of hers, the unlikely-named Bronson Gaffney, a local artist who did traditional landscapes in oil. ‘I could have a chat with him and see if he would be willing to do a joint exhibition. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem. It would get you a bit of exposure, in a low-pressured way, and give you something to work towards. And Bronson’s just lovely, so he is.’

      Clare’s fingers pressed against her lips until the colour leached from them but her eyes were alive with excitement. ‘Do you really think I could do it?’

      ‘Of course you could,’ said Patsy. ‘And what’s more, I bet you I sell every one of your pictures!’

      It took Clare only a few seconds to consider the offer. ‘In that case, okay then. You’re on!’ she cried and the others gave a little cheer.

      ‘I’ll give you a call tomorrow and we can talk about it some more,’ said Patsy.

      ‘I think that calls for another drink,’ said Clare, flushed with excitement. She got up and went to the bar. Patsy, who was driving, declined the offer of another drink. When Clare returned, Kirsty asked, ‘So, how’s everyone else getting on with their resolutions?’

      ‘I ordered a new treadmill for the gym,’ said Janice.

      ‘I thought you had one already?’ Clare frowned in puzzlement.

      ‘Oh, we did, but that’s absolutely ancient,’ said Janice with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘This one’s state of the art.’

      ‘Well, rather you than me,’ said Patsy, unconsciously skimming her stomach with the flat of her palm. ‘There’s nothing of you as it is, Janice. If you exercise any more you’ll disappear!’

      ‘Always room for improvement, my dear,’ retorted Janice good-naturedly.

      Listening to this exchange, Kirsty wondered why Janice, poised and elegant, was so obsessed with continual self-improvement. There was nothing wrong with making the most of yourself – and Kirsty was as vain as the next woman – but Janice pursued physical perfection with religious fervour. For the first time it crossed Kirsty’s mind that, perhaps, Janice wasn’t as happy as she appeared. In exercising every pick of fat away, was she exercising away demons too? Kirsty might have known her for fifteen years, but did she know the real Janice?

      ‘Have you been on any more dates recently?’ asked Patsy, rousing Kirsty from her reverie.

      She let out an audible sigh and smiled wryly. ‘If you could call the last time a date. I think I need a few weeks to recover from that experience and drum up the enthusiasm to give it another go. I should have made a different resolution,’ she went on, seriously. She was sick already of the others asking her about dating. ‘I should’ve made it something simple. Like getting a job.’ Something, she thought, that she could realistically achieve.

      ‘Are you thinking about going back to work, then?’ said Janice, leaning forwards with interest.

      ‘Yeah. I’ve seen a job advertised. At the museum,’ she said.

      ‘That’s exciting. What does it involve?’ asked Clare.

      ‘The job title’s “Museum Learning Assistant”. I’d look after groups and schools coming in for visits, as well as welcome visitors. There’d be a bit of admin – answering email and telephone enquiries, that sort of thing. To be honest, the job description’s very varied and a bit vague. Which is a good thing ‘cos I think it’d be easy to make the job my own, if you know what I mean.’

      ‘Yes, once you’ve got your feet under the table,’ said Patsy, shrewdly.

      ‘That’s right,’ said Kirsty, realising that the more she talked about this job, the more she wanted it. ‘It’s only part-time and Dorothy and Harry have offered to help with the boys. But they didn’t hide the fact that they’re not happy about it,’ she added glumly. ‘Well, Harry isn’t.’

      Patsy gave Kirsty a knowing look. ‘Not that it’s any of his business.’

      Kirsty tilted her head in Patsy’s direction, acknowledging the comment but giving it no credence. Patsy didn’t understand how it was. Kirsty’s existence was so bound up with her in-laws, she had difficulty separating her life from theirs, especially when what she chose to do impacted on them. ‘He warmed to the idea after a bit,’ she went on. ‘But only because he had the bright idea that I would work in the factory office.’

      ‘And that’s not something you want to do?’ said Janice.

      ‘God, no!’ exclaimed Kirsty, jerking with such sharpness that some wine slopped out of the glass in her hand onto the table. ‘I couldn’t think of anything worse. I think it would kill me. He suggested I do the books, pay the wages, that sort of thing. Apart from hating it,