All We Have Lost (18 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Ian puts the children to bed. When he comes back down, he seems to have forgotten how things are, walking into the room wearing a big smile.

‘He’s really obsessed with the old trains, isn’t he?’

I raise a cool eyebrow.

He loses the smile. ‘Kim, I can’t tell you how sorry...’

‘We’re all sorry.’

He sits near me. ‘How are you?’

Hurt, tired, sad, lonely. But I just look at him coldly. ‘Did you tell them?’

He shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t do it to them. They seemed so happy.’

‘Well, you’re going to have to!’

‘We can’t wake them up now!’

‘They’re not asleep.’

‘I’ll tell them next time. I promise.’

‘Next time?’

He looks panicked.

‘It’s all right.’ I sigh. ‘I was joking.’

He looks weary.

‘Let’s talk custody,’ I say, wanting him gone.

He nods.

‘Well?’ I say.

‘Well, what?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t done this before.’

‘Neither have I.’ He attempts a smile.

‘We need lawyers.’

‘Maybe we can work it out without lawyers.’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘Well, couldn’t we work something out that suits us both?’

‘Like?’

‘I don’t know. We could start by seeing if you agree with how often I’d like to see them?’

‘And how often
would
you like to see them?’

‘Um.’ He rubs his forehead. He looks at a stain in the carpet then back at me. ‘I’d like to see them every week, of course. I’d
love
to see them a little every day but that probably wouldn’t suit you so what about at least once during the week and maybe take them every second weekend? And the weekends I’m not taking them, maybe I could see them for an afternoon or two? Would that be OK with you?’ He looks hopeful.

And I can’t believe we’re doing this. Dividing out our children. I feel like giving in, telling him he can see them whenever he wants. But this is the man who wants it all.

‘I can’t let you take them at the weekends when I don’t know where you’ll be.’

‘The Lansdowne Hotel.’

‘You’re staying in a hotel?’

‘It’s not too expensive and it’s near work.’

Where she is. ‘I don’t want them to meet her.’ I feel like my mother. Making The Deal.

‘I’m not seeing her, Kim.’

‘I don’t care what you do with your life as long as you don’t do it in front of our children.’ And I wish that this were true. It will be, though, in time.

‘It’s over with her.’

I shrug like I don’t care. ‘Ian, I’m not going to come between you and the children. You can see them as often as you want – as long as it’s just you.’

‘Thank you,’ he says hoarsely and he starts to well up.

‘Don’t thank me. I’m doing it for them.’

‘Thanks, anyway. You didn’t have to be fair. You could have kept them from me. To punish me. I know that. So thank you.’

‘I don’t want them hurt. I don’t even want to tell them.’

‘Maybe we don’t have to. Maybe we could pretend. They’re so small. So vulnerable.’

‘I wish you’d thought of that. I wish you’d thought of them. Of me.’ I get up and hurry from the room.

In the bathroom, I wash my face, blow my nose and avoid the mirror.
He knows not to come after me. But suddenly I want him to. I want him to take me in his arms and promise me that we’ll go back to the start and he’ll be around all the time and we’ll do things together. But if he said that, I wouldn’t believe him. I take a deep breath and go back out.

He’s fiddling with little windmills Sam and Chloe made at summer camp.

He looks up. ‘Do you think they’d miss these if I brought them back to the hotel?’

I shake my head. ‘I’ll tell them. They’ll probably be delighted.’

‘Thank you,’ he says hoarsely.

‘Look, if you want to take them for the day tomorrow, it’s OK. If you’re not playing golf…’

He looks so earnest when he says, ‘I was a fucking idiot. And I’m sorry.’

‘What time do you want to pick them up?’

‘Tenish?’

‘OK.’

‘About money, there’s plenty in the joint account and I’ll be lodging my bonus cheque on Monday.’

I can’t deal with this now, so I just nod.

He looks hopeful.

So I need to be clear. ‘Ian, just because you’re seeing the children doesn’t change anything between us. You’re still my ex-husband. That won’t change.’

‘I know.’ He bows his head.

‘OK.’ God, this is so hard.

In bed, I lie awake. Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe it
is
over. Maybe I don’t care. Maybe I do. I shouldn’t, though; that’s what’s important. I need to build a life without him. Tomorrow, I’ll have the day to myself. That’s where I’ll start.

There will be art galleries. Lunch somewhere nice. I will make myself have fun. I will live in the moment. I might even buy a self-help book. Because why the hell not?

Sleep comes with having a purpose and a little more certainty in my life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Ian arrives on time. The children are bursting to go. He says he’ll be back at six and will have them fed. They just about remember to wave goodbye. Off they go, Sam in one arm, Chloe in another. They look so cute, the three of them silhouetted against the morning sun.

The house is suddenly very quiet.

But I have my plans.

Walking into the Orange Gallery is like entering a sanctuary. I amble around in blissful silence, no one pulling out of me, no one asking for anything, no one climbing on something they shouldn’t. I inhale the art, actually breathe it in, right into my bones. Time loses relevance.

My favourite art gallery owner makes coffee and we sit together at his desk. I ask about up-and-coming artists. He looks them up on Google Images. It’s my ideal day, gazing at new art and arguing over what we like. There isn’t much actual argument – Fonsie and I have always been united in our taste. I want ninety per cent of what he hangs in the Orange Gallery, closer to ninety-eight per cent but I’d never admit that to him – we’d have nothing to argue about.

He looks up from his laptop. ‘I’ve missed you.’

I came here every week for twelve years – until I gave up work.

‘
I’ve
missed me,’ I joke.

He smiles, no clue what I mean.

‘Anyway, I’m back. Every week from now on.’

I ask him about a painting he has hanging. He tells me it’s by a new artist he’s showing, a man who’s recovering from alcoholism and producing great work.

‘It’s amazing,’ I say.

‘He’s going to be huge. You’ll join me for lunch?’

‘It’s lunch-time already?’ I check my watch. ‘Wow.’

‘You’re going to have to eat anyway. May as well join a lonely old man.’

‘Less of the “old”.’ And I hope he’s not lonely. Because Fonsie is simply adorable.

We lunch together in a small restaurant a few doors up from the gallery.

‘I’m looking for a curator,’ he says, peering up over the top of his menu.

‘Fonsie, don’t. No one has your taste. Seriously. Get a secretary or an accountant or something to handle the business side of things if you’re too busy.’

‘I think I’ll have the soup. It’s good here. What are you going for?’

‘Probably the Caesar salad,’ I say distractedly. ‘Fonsie don’t let anyone else choose the art.’

‘Too late.’

‘You’ve found someone? Have you actually offered the job yet? Because it’s not too late…’

He opens out his napkin and places it on his lap.

The waitress takes our order.

‘So who is this guy?’ I ask with a growing sense of foreboding.

‘What makes you think it’s a guy? Women have much better taste in art. Of course homosexuals have a wonderful eye to
o
.’

‘Who is she?’

‘You know her.’

‘I do?’

‘Let me give you a hint. Young, vivacious, energetic, enthusiastic…’

‘Amy Daly?’

‘No. She’s passionate about art, has exquisite taste, a keen commercial min
d
…’

‘Jane O’Sullivan?’

‘That egomaniac?’

I laugh. ‘Well then, I don’t know. You’ve got me.’

‘She recently packed in a lucrative PR business to write a novel…’

‘Oh my God. You’re offering me a job?’

‘And she’s so sharp. Kim, you should see your face.’

‘Would you blame me? You’ve just offered me a job that I’ve no experience whatsoever for. Besides which, my life is a shambles.’

‘Did I just say exquisite taste in art and a keen commercial mind?’

‘No art degree, though.’

‘A business is a business. And Kim, darling, you’ve run a business.’

‘But PR…’

‘I can’t imagine anything more relevant, getting publicity for Orange in all the right places, organizing events...’

I stare at him.

‘You know, usually it’s up to the interviewee to persuade the interviewer. Is this some sort of reverse psychology you’re using on me?’ He smiles.

‘Fonsie, I couldn’t.’

‘I don’t see why not. The children are about to go back to school, aren’t they?’

‘I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure it’s the right time.’

‘There’s never a right time,’ he says, refilling my glass.

‘Fonsie, there’s a lot of stuff going on in my life.’ I look down at the remnants of my Caesar salad and poke an innocent crouton.

‘All right. I won’t force you. But think about it. I can wait. I want the right person. And I knew who that was the minute she walked through my door this morning. It’s fate. And only fools argue with fate. Chin-chin.’ He raises his glass.

I smile and clink it. I feel the unfamiliar warm glow that comes with being appreciated.

And then, he has to get back.

‘Take your time to think about it, Kim. When you’re ready, let me know. I can wait six months at least. If you think you’ll be in a better position then to take the job, then great.’

‘I’ll think about it over the weekend and give you an answer on Monday. And Fonsie? Thank you.’

He winks. ‘Don’t thank me until you’ve taken the job.’

At the sink in the hairdresser’s, feeling the warm water flow over my scalp, I realise that even though I’ve forgotten Kim Waters, there are people who haven’t. And that makes my tired, flattened heart swell just a little bit.

‘Let me do something special today,’ Rita says.

‘Knock yourself out,’ is a lethal instruction to a hairdresser but suddenly I’m feeling reckless.

I close my eyes and imagine that there are no obstacles to Fonsie’s offer. I imagine days spent surrounded by what I love, getting to choose what’s hung, meeting the artists, giving new talent a break. It’s impossible but a girl can dream.

I do a tour of the gallery in my mind, remembering each painting. I imagine hanging them differently and adding a few more of that new artist. I’m sorry I never asked Fonsie to show me his full portfolio. I will – next time.

‘Right, Kim, the moment you’ve been waiting for.’

I open my eyes, slow to leave this perfect world.

Wow. I turn my head from side to side. It’s really good. Maybe even a miracle. Young. Cheeky. A little like pre-Ian Kim.

Passing a flower shop, on impulse, I go in. I’m worth a bunch of lilies. And a bouquet of roses.

I arrive home five minutes before they do.

‘Hi, Mum,’ Sam and Chloe call, rushing past to get to the TV.

He stands at the door.

I hold it.

‘You look great, Kim,’ he says.

‘I do, don’t I?’

‘Did you have a good time?’

‘Yeah, actually.’

‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Good.’

‘I was even offered a job.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘Seriously? What kind?’

‘Curator.’ Let this lady out for a day and see what happens.

‘Of an art gallery?’

I nod.

‘Wow. I presume you’re going to take it?’

‘I’m considering it. Anyway I better get the kids to bed.’

‘What about tomorrow?’

I look into his eyes. ‘You’re not busy?’ And we all know what ‘busy’ is a code for.

‘No,’ he says firmly. I catch him eyeing the roses. It would never occur to him that I might have bought them for myself. Because I never would have. That was my problem. He looks back at me. ‘I could bring them swimming?’

How I wish he’d never stopped. I shrug. ‘OK.’

‘I’ll see you at about twenty-to-ten, then?’

I nod. And close the door.