All We Have Lost (11 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

We remember old times, good times, ridiculous times. Ridiculous people. Great people. I laugh to the point of pain. And my heart soars. Because I am still me. After all.

Over coffee I go quiet, remembering how things are at home. I look at Connor and decide that now would be a good time to save him. Because something good has to come from my mistakes.

‘Con, I want to tell you something important, something
really
important. Are you listening? Because this’s really important.’ OK, I’m drunk.

He smiles. ‘I’m all ears.’

I point at him. ‘When you get married, make sure it’s to the right woman. Live with her first – for, like, seven years. Or more.’

He raises his eyebrows.

‘I’m serious.’

‘You and Ian didn’t hang around, though, and you’re happy.’

I shake my head sadly. ‘No. Not any more.’ My sigh is like all the sighs in the world combined.

‘But you’re like, I don’t know, Dempsey and Makepeace, Fred and Wilma….’

‘Maybe we
were
Fred and Wilma. But Fred changed when Wilma quit work. Wait, why are we talking about Fred and Wilma?’

‘How has he changed?’

‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I wave an impatient hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. This isn’t about Ian. It’s about you. Don’t rush, OK? Take your time. Be
sure
. You know?’

‘OK but what’s up with you guys?’

‘Nothing. It’s OK. We’ll sort it out.’ 

‘Only that we made a pact, remember? If one of us is in trouble, the other’s there.’

‘We were twenty-one.’

‘So?’

I shrug. I feel so suddenly tired.

‘Hey,’ he says so softly. ‘What’s up? It can’t be that bad.’

From where I’m sitting, it couldn’t be worse. ‘He doesn’t love me any more.’ There, I’ve said it.

‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

‘He’s changed. Ever since I quit work, he’s lost all respect for me – and he used to have a lot. Remember?’

‘Your biggest fan.’

‘Well, now he’s never home. He’s even taken up golf. It’s like he doesn’t want to be with us. It’s like he thinks we’re boring or suburban or something.’

‘Go on.’

‘The other day, the look he gave me for not hanging the clothes out properly on the line.’

‘
What?!
’

Another sigh, equally deep. ‘I’d been using the tumble dryer a lot so I decided to cut down on electricity, you know, to save money. I didn’t think to clean the line before hanging out the clothes and, because I hadn’t been using it, they got marks on them. I had to take them all down and wash them again. The look he gave me – like I’m the world’s biggest moron.’

‘Maybe you were imagining it.’

‘I know Ian. And I know when he’s being a bastard. He was being a bastard.’

‘Maybe he was just being stupid. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.’

I shake my head. ‘He constantly finds fault with what I do, especially the way I look after the kids. If they’re cranky, it’s because I didn’t make sure they slept enough. If they won’t sleep it’s because I let them nap during the day. If they don’t eat, it’s because I gave them treats. If they get sick, it’s because I didn’t give them vitamins. Everything,
everything
, is my fault.’ I will not cry. I will
not
cry.

‘All since you gave up the business?’

I nod. ‘Maybe he only likes independent women or something. But I
am
working. I’m writing. Well, I’m supposed to be. That is, I will be after the summer. Anyway, minding two children is a full-time job. It really is.’

‘Have you spoken to him about it?’

‘We end up fighting. I’m doing my best. I’m trying to be a good mum. I’m trying to stay strong, confident but it’s getting harder and harder. He’s turned nasty.’

His eyes widen. ‘He hasn’t
hit
you?’

‘No!
God
no.’

‘Because I’d kill him. You
know
I’d kill him.’

‘He wouldn’t.’ I shake my head adamantly. ‘Whatever else, he’d never hit me.’ Then I smile. ‘I’d kill him!’

‘At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘No, I have. And I’ve lost my energy. And very soon, the will to save my marriage.’

‘Surely, it can’t be just because you gave up work? I mean, you’re still the same person.’

‘Try telling
him
that.’ Then it strikes me. ‘You know, because of all this, I’m becoming a different person: defensive and paranoid and depressed and sad. Are depressed and sad the same thing? I’ve never had a problem with confidence. Now, I feel this small.’ I pinch the air. ‘If I weren’t a fighter, I’d be this size.’ I close my finger and thumb so that they all but meet. ‘I don’t want to fight. And I don’t want the kids to grow up witnessing that. But sometimes I’m just so frustrated I forget they’re there. Sam shouts, “shut up, shut up,” and covers his ears. Chloe goes really quiet. It’s terrible.’ My fingers dig into my forehead. My jaw jerks out of kilter; my lip wobbles and I’m crying.
‘I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. If it wasn’t for the kids I’d probably stop trying.’

‘Shh,’ he soothes. ‘It’s OK. We’ll sort this out.’

I’m so glad of that ‘we’.

He runs his hand over his mouth. ‘What about counselling?’

‘Ian wouldn’t see a counsellor even if he had a hot stock tip – well actually, in that case….’ But it’s not funny.

‘I’m sure he wants to sort things out too, though.’

‘He thinks everything’s my fault.’

‘Maybe advice from a third party might mean something to him?’

‘If he’d go.’

‘I don’t think you’ve anything to lose by trying?’

‘Except another argument.’

‘One argument versus saving your marriage...’

‘I know you’re right. I’m just tired of being the one doing all the trying.’

He just looks at me.

I take a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll do it. I’ll try and get him to go.’

He winks. ‘Atta girl.’

I wake to shrieks of, ‘Surprise!’

Connor carries my favourite breakfast in on a tray: toasted bagel, orange juice and coffee. Sam has the newspaper. And, from behind her back, Chloe produces tulips.

I touch my heart. ‘Aw, you guys. Come here and give me a hug.’

Sam and Chloe race over, climb on the bed and snuggle into me.

I look at Connor. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.

I check my watch – almost eleven. I haven’t slept this late since I worked, back when we took turns to get up with the kids.

‘Chloe was telling me she can swing all by herself,’ Connor says. ‘So, I thought we’d take the
Underground
to Hyde Park.’ He looks at Sam as he says Underground.

Sam hops off the bed and bursts to the door. ‘Let’s go. Let’s go.’ He’s jumping up and down.

‘Hang on. I have to get dressed.’

‘You’re not coming,’ Connor says. ‘We’re meeting you for lunch. I’ve written down the details. And you have my number.’

The
thought
of a morning to myself… ‘You
sure
?’

‘See you later. Come on, Chloe.’

‘Wow. You really are a star.’

‘As are you – you just have to remind yourself a bit, OK?’

I lounge over breakfast, take my time with the newspaper, delay in the shower – without one interruption, one request, one emergency. This is what heaven must be like, I think, as the water pounds down on me. I circle my shoulders, tip my head back and let out a long breath. Leaving the apartment, I feel as though I’ve washed away years.  

I wander through art gallery after art gallery. My heart expands. My steps lighten.

And then I realise the time.

I rush into the restaurant, late, carrying a small oil painting.

‘I am
so
sorry, Connor.’

He smiles. ‘Just show me the painting.’

Excitedly, I unwrap it.

‘What is it?’ Chloe asks, frowning.

‘A painting.’

‘I know
that
. What
is
it?’

‘Oh. Eh. I don’t know. It’s called abstract.’

They pass it around.

‘So it’s a picture of nothing?’ Chloe asks.

‘Pretty much.’

She nods. ‘I like it.’

‘Me too,’ says Sam.

I notice a woman at a nearby table smiling at us. She looks at us and sees a happy family. And that floors me all over again. 

As we’re leaving, Connor tells me that his sister Grace has offered to babysit tonight.

‘Wow, that’s so nice of her.’

‘She’s devoted t
o
… my money. She can come for half-seven. That OK?’

‘Sure. I’ll have the kids in bed.’

‘Awww, Mum.’

‘I’ll read you a story first, of course.’

‘Could Connor?’

I turn to him.

He looks at the kids. ‘Connor could.’

‘You’re better than any shrink,’ I quietly tell him.

‘What’s a shrink?’ Sam asks.

‘Someone small,’ Chloe explains knowledgeably. 

Another chic restaurant. Another window table. I join Connor in drinking Coke – easy to be thoughtful when it’s no longer every woman for herself. Suddenly, I don’t want to go home. I want to hide away here, burrow my head into sand. Instead, I raise my chin and determine to ‘fake it till I make it’.

Too soon, we’re at the airport and I’m fighting those ostrich feelings again.

‘Thanks, Connor. So much.’

‘Anytime. I mean that. Anytime. I’m here, OK?’

I nod.

‘You’re a bright, intelligent, beautiful woman. Remember that. OK?’

Why is it that when people are nice to you, it makes you want to cry? I force a smile. ‘You’ve been amazing, Connor. You
may
even have restored my faith in men.’

‘Steady.’ He smiles. Then he scoops up the children.

I get a sudden urge to do what Chloe is doing: throw my arms round his neck and cling to him. And he must sense this because, once she’s safely back down, he quietly says:

‘Don’t forget how strong you are, Kimmy. Sort this out. Find a counsellor. Make it work. For everyone’s sake.’ He looks down at Chloe and Sam and winks.

‘Come on, Mum or we’ll miss the plane,’ Chloe says.

‘I’ll call you,’ Connor promises.

Walking towards Security, I feel like a child on a Sunday night, dreading school next day.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Sunday night. Watching Ian drop his bags in the kitchen without a hug reminds me of the status quo. It also reminds me that he didn’t call us while we were in London. He looks at me, sitting at the table going through Friday’s uninteresting post.

‘You look well,’ he says accusingly.

‘Thank you.’ Nothing’s going to get me down.

‘How’s Connor?’ he asks walking over to put on the kettle.

‘Well.’

‘What did you do?’

I brighten, surprised that we’re having an actual conversation. ‘Just hung out mostly. On Saturday, he brought the kids to the park to give me a brea
k
which was lovely.’

He turns. ‘You let him take the kids out on his own?’

‘Of course. He’s great with them. They love him.’

‘I can’t
believe
you left him alone with the children.’

‘Stop, OK? This is Connor you’re talking about. Even if it wasn’t, do you really think I’d let Sam and Chloe go off with someone I didn’t trust? Do you really think I’m that careless?’

He shrugs, the implication being that I am. Maybe he should check their gums. They’ve probably got scurvy. I am mortified and furious–
m
ortified for myself and somehow Ian, and furious because he is accusing our (sorry, my) friend, the friend who looked after us so well, of being the worst thing in the entire world.

‘Don’t ever and I mean, ever, accuse me of not looking after the children properly. As for Connor, he was more a father to them this weekend than you’ve been in a long time.’

‘Excuse me?’ His head juts out.

‘You heard me. If you’d seen the trouble he went to, the thought he put in, the time he spent with Sam and Chloe, you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to knock him.’

He’s walking towards me now. He reaches one of the kitchen chairs and grips the back of it. ‘So, good old Connor was a great father. What kind of husband was he?’ Nasty, nasty tone of voice.

I stare at him. ‘You can just fuck off.’ I walk out and slam the door.

In the bedroom, I simmer. And pace. When I finally seek him out it’s because somebody has to fight for this marriage.

He’s in the garden. Goose-stepping across the lawn.

‘Ian, I’m sorry. You
are
a good father.’ I don’t add, ‘when you’re here’, though I think it’s a relevant point.

I get a look, nothing more.

‘It’s just that you were implying that I can’t look after the kids and that’s not fair. And your remarks about Connor were out of line. You know that.’

‘
Do
I?’

‘Yes you do. Connor is one of my oldest friends. He was, and always is, a perfect gentleman.’

He raises an eyebrow.

And I suddenly think: he’s getting off on this, the power of it – of me asking forgiveness and him deciding whether or not to give it.

‘We need to see someone, someone who won’t care who is right or wrong...’

‘What, a shrink?’

‘A therapist…’

‘I’m not telling anyone our business.’

‘We need to do
something
.’

‘You know
what I think of those people.’

‘We can’t keep going on like this. We need help.’

‘How about you making more of an effort? That’d help.’

‘So it’s all my fault?’

‘Why can’t you be nicer to me?’

‘Why can’t
you
be nicer to
me
?’

‘It’s hard to be nice with you skiving off to London.’

‘Skiving! I had two children with me. It was a weekend. You weren’t even here.’

‘I was
working
.’ 

‘Can we please go to counselling?’

‘Not interested.’ He turns and goes inside.

I kick the swings – more than once.

Out front, I hear his car start up and reverse out – fast.

‘Great; that will really solve things, Ian.’

I go inside.

Nothing like fury to get the housework done. I clatter around the kitchen in rage and frustration. He is winning and I am losing some secret battle he is waging and I don’t even understand.

I stare out the window of a sparkling kitchen. Two robins are having sex on the swings. They might as well – someone in this house should be.

He doesn’t come home. And I don’t sleep.

The following morning, Connor calls. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I shouldn’t have to do this, reverse out of our friendship because of a jealous husband. But I don’t know what else to do. Things are just so bad.

‘So, how did it go?’ he asks. ‘Did you arrange to see someone?’

My throat burns and my eyes smart. ‘It’s OK, Connor. We talked. We’ll probably go on a holiday or something.’

‘Oh. Good. But no counselling?’

‘No.’ Tears well over. I cover my mouth so no sound escapes. 

‘How are Chloe and Sam?’

‘Good,’ I choke.

‘Such great kids. You’ll have to bring them over again soon.’

‘Mm hmm.’

‘Are you
OK
?’

‘Yeah,’ I say lightly.

‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. Distracted.’

‘By what?’ he asks like he doesn’t believe me.

‘Writing,’ I lie. But actually, it’s what I should be doing – escaping in my mind at least, and reclaiming my independence.

‘Oh Kim, that’s great! Did you find a plot?’

I start to think out loud. ‘I’m not going to worry about plot…or anything. I’m just going to see what comes.’ My lie is becoming the truth. I’m going to do this. I have to.

‘I should leave you to it.’

‘Thanks, Connor.’ Once again, he has rescued me.

‘Call anytime you need to, anytime you want to talk.’

‘Will do,’ I lie.

‘Do!’ he orders.

‘And listen, don’t feel you need to call. I’ll be fine.
We’ll
be fine. Honestly. We just needed to talk.’

There’s a pause. ‘I might just touch base once a week or so.’

‘Oh. OK. Sure. Would before seven be OK… just in case you wake the kids?’

‘Of course. Talk soon. And Kim?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’m so glad it’s working out.’

‘Thanks, Connor. For everything.’

In the notebook that my husband once gave me, I write about a woman who is losing herself, disappearing in the day to day.

Every entry records her growing isolation
.
The walls of her world move in on her a fraction more every day. She wonders if she screamed would anyone hear
.
She stops caring – not just about her husband but about everything. Other people’s lives are moving ahead. Her new sister-in-law is pregnant. Her friend has got engaged to her latest Perfect Man. Her former child minder is starting college. She is becalmed. And no longer cares.

Her husband works later and later. She does not come downstairs to welcome home his disappointment. When he finally makes it to the bedroom, she pretends to be asleep. It’s easier.

One night, he doesn’t come home at all. She is surprised that, next day, he bothers to explain about the big deal ‘going down’, how he’d to work till two and how, because he had to be up at six, ‘all the guys’ stayed in the Conrad.

She wishes him back in his boring old job with his pre-
Wolf-of-Wall-Street
vocabulary. She wishes their old life back.

The children start to creep into her bed. She doesn’t bother moving them out. He sleeps in their son’s bed – when he
is
actually home.