Page 9 of The F*cking Fabulous Forties Club

I notice the faces of a few mourners popping in through the doorway – checking if the big emotional reunion is over and they are safe to re-enter the room. It seems like the perfect opportunity to grab onto to make our departure.

‘We were just going anyway,’ I say and Laura blinks at me through watery eyes.

‘You haven’t even had a cup of tea,’ she says.

‘You know me – not a big tea drinker,’ I tell her. ‘And I don’t want to steal the attention from your wonderful mum. But we’ll be there at the funeral. Unless you prefer we didn’t come?’

‘Please do,’ she says, grabbing my hand and squeezing. ‘It would mean a lot to Mammy and to me too. I think I need my girls,’ she says.

‘Then we’ll be there, won’t we, Niamh?’

Niamh nods. ‘Of course we will. And if you need anything, just get in touch. You can find us on Facebook.’

‘I can pass on Rebecca’s number,’ Simon, who clearly hasn’t got the message that he’s about as welcome as a fart in a lift, says. Maybe I should thank him for his offer, but I’m not feeling particularly generous towards him.

Laura nods. ‘Mammy really thought the world of you both,’ she says. ‘She hated that we’d grown apart. She’ll definitely be smiling down at us now.’ We all glance skyward as if there’s a chance we really will see Kitty smiling down from her heavenly cloud. Of course we can’t.

‘We’ll see you tomorrow,’ I say, and Niamh and I make our way towards the door – where Simon is lingering. I nod in his direction but don’t speak, not until I see Conal again. ‘We’ll be there tomorrow,’ I call to him. ‘Mind yourself, and mind Laura.’

He gives me a sad smile. ‘I will.’

‘Well, that didn’t go as badly as I thought it might,’ Niamh says as she drives me back home.

‘It could’ve been worse,’ I agree. ‘Bloody Simon didn’t help. But I’m glad we went for Laura. And her mum of course.’

‘And Conal?’ Niamh asks as she raises one eyebrow.

‘Keep your eyes on the road,’ I scold. I will not be drawn into any discussion about Conal O’Hagan and the crush I refuse to publicly admit I had on him a long time ago.

‘I believe he’s single,’ Niamh says. ‘Divorced a couple of years back. Not that you’d be interested in hearing that.’

‘Quite,’ I say, my gaze firmly on the road ahead, refusing to acknowledge the warm feeling that information gives me. We drive in silence for a minute or two.

‘It’s sad though,’ Niamh says. ‘Kitty being gone. First there was your daddy…’

The mention of my father does what it always does – it blanks out all other noise and every other thought. It brings a fresh wave of grief. I do not want to talk about him. Not because I don’t care, but because I care too much. It’s too raw. The pain is too great. I don’t know if it will ever feel anything but raw. If the mention that he is gone will ever not feel like a kick in the stomach. I don’t want Niamh to continue down this particular conversational path. Kitty may be fair game for our chat, but I don’t want to think about my father. Or about how this is what will mark the second half of our lives – loss and grief becoming a more and more regular occurrence. It’s not a happy conversation or a positive train of thought to get caught on. Generally, it makes me cry, drink too much wine and eat too many Kettle crisps, and subsequently feel as if my own demise is only a matter of moments away for the next few days as my body recovers.

‘I found our old time capsule,’ I blurt, knowing it will shift the focus from my least favourite topic of conversation quickly.

‘No way!’ Niamh exclaims. ‘Where? Oh my God! You still had it? I’d forgotten about that! Have you opened it? Is it super cringe?’ Her previously sombre tone of voice has been replaced by a giddiness. I can’t help but smile.

‘No, I’ve not opened it. I only found it this morning when I went to see my mum. Truth be told, I’d forgotten about it too but then we got to talking about Kitty, and what we were like when we were younger, and I remembered our summer projects.’

‘Oh Jeez, super cringe,’ Niamh laughs. ‘Do not ever tell any of my children about that. I’ll never live it down. We were such gacks. Did you find the other stuff too? The magazine and all those awful drawings of awful clothes?’

I shake my head. ‘Nope, just the time capsule. I think that’s cringe-worthy enough.’

‘God, what age were we when we put that together?’ Niamh asks. ‘Fourteen or fifteen, maybe?’

‘Sixteen,’ I say. ‘Well, the box says 1994, and I know we made it in the summer holidays so… we’d all have been sixteen. Laura might even have been seventeen.’

‘I can’t imagine any of mine taking the time to make a time capsule at sixteen,’ she says. ‘Definitely not cool.’

‘We were never cool,’ I say with a laugh. I used to be mortified at my lack of coolness in my teenage years. I don’t know why. It’s not like I eventually reached a cool stage at any subsequent age. I’ve made my peace with that now.

‘We were cool in our own way,’ Niamh says.

‘Being able to do the full rap from “Shocked” by Kylie Minogue doesn’t count, Niamh,’ I reply with a smile.

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