All We Have Lost (7 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

After a day of tantrums (Sam), whining (Chloe) and total frustration (me), I do not greet my husband with a warm bosom, slippers or even the standard, ‘How was your day?’ What he gets is a flat, ‘I’m going for a walk.’

He looks at me.

‘It’s either that or lose my mind. They’re in bed.’ I head for the door before he finds out Sam’s still awake.

‘But I’m just home,’ he says, like another child.

‘You’re dinner’s in the oven.’

‘I was talking about your company.’

‘I’ll be great company – when I get back.’

There’s a gentle thud from upstairs and then a succession of smaller ones. Sam appears at the top of the stairs. The demon child looks so suddenly adorable, all soft and squishy, hair defying gravity.

‘Sam, back to bed.’ I turn to Ian. ‘Or you could have a man-to-man chat while you’re eating dinner? I’ll put him to bed when I get back. I won’t be long. Promise.’

‘All right, go on then.’ He sighs and heads up the stairs to our son.

I try to ignore the permission-granted tone of voice and hurry into
our neighbour’s house for a pee. I can’t risk going back – I might never get out again. I also borrow a hat. It’s freezing. It’s summer and it’s freezing.

I walk fast, arms pumping. I even break into a run. It does help. By the time I get home, I’m feeling almost human. Ian is unconscious on the couch, his arm around our sleeping son. I take a moment to admire them, then slip Sam out and carry him up to bed.

I take out my laptop and try to fix
Peripheral Fear
, the novel that is proving a peripheral nightmare.

Friday and Connor is throwing a party.

‘Guess who’s babysitting tonight?’ I ask Sam to distract him from the fact that I’m washing his hair.

‘
Sally?!
’

‘No, Sally wasn’t free. Guess again.’

‘Angela?’

‘Got it in two, mister.’ I turn to his sister. ‘Chloe, I need you be a little more careful about what you say to Angela, this time. No more talk about hairy arms.’

‘I was just trying to help.’

‘I know, sweetie, but you’ve got to trust that Angela can look after her own body, OK?’

Last time, Chloe suggested that Angela shave her arms because they were ‘hairy like a man’s’. By way of encouragement, she added that
I
always shave mine. When Angela suggested that I might shave
under
my arms, Chloe insisted, ‘No, she shaves her arms.’ The fact that Angela relayed the story in vivid detail gives me hope that she wasn’t too upset by the unintentional hairy arms insult.

Angela arrives to a hero’s welcome – from all three of us. I hurry upstairs to get ready.

I throw on the outfit I managed to select earlier. I stand in front of the mirror, something I haven’t been doing much of, lately. Good God, are those my hips?
I try different trousers. And look worse. I resort to black and promise to exercise.

In the bathroom, I put on make up, another forgotten activity. I squint and lean in to the mirror. Is that a
grey hair
? Jesus Christ. There’s a full-length silver strand amongst the black.
I literally run for the tweezers. I am thirty-three and
ageing
. Worse: I’m euphoric at the thought of a night out. What is happening to me?

Ian is in no rush to the party. He wants to go for a walk and have a quiet drink first. No argument from me. I, am, out.

‘Any news?’ he asks, as we stroll along the sea front.

I remind him of the hairy arms incident.

We laugh and I think that’s all we need, time alone together. It’s so good to be just the two of us that I don’t care how late we are for the party.

When we do arrive, it’s to a buzz. Connor introduces us to various couples already deep in conversation. He settles on ‘Frances and Simon’ who seem to be experiencing a chat-lull. We exchange ‘heys’.

‘Kim’s a novelist,’ Connor announces. ‘The next Deirdre French, they say.’

I blush.

‘Wow. That’s great,’ Frances says. ‘What kind of novels?’

‘It’s just a hobby.’ I turn to glare at Connor but already he’s slipped away.

‘Murder mystery,’ Ian says with a confidence I don’t feel.

‘Wow! Gosh. I’d love to write.’

‘You should,’ I enthuse, diverting the focus to her.

‘Ah, I’d never have time. I work full-time in the home. Our kids are very small.’

I nod, hoping that Ian is listening.

‘Maybe if I got
some
support from this guy…’ She points a thumb at her husband then leans in to me, conspiratorially. ‘What
is
it about men? As soon as you become a full-time mum, they think they can treat you like a full-time slave.’

‘Nice to meet you both,’ Simon says and walks away.

Oh my God, the poor guy. He looks so hurt.

Frances rolls her eyes. ‘Now
I’m
the bad guy.’

Ian and I exchange a glance.

‘Look at him,’ she continues. ‘Guzzling away, assuming I’ll drive home because I’m breast-feeding.’

Ian starts to move. I tighten my grip. He is
not
leaving me with her.

‘
Now
I know why he encouraged me to breast-feed. Who has to get up in the middle of the night, every time? I’m living proof that sleep-deprivation is torture.’

Ian turns to me and squints. ‘Isn’t that Connor calling us over?’

It isn’t. ‘Think so, yeah. It was so lovely meeting you, Frances.’

‘Oh sure, no problem.’ She sounds disappointed. ‘Good luck with the books.’

‘Thank you.’ The really worrying thing is that I feel her pain. Highway to the Danger Zone.

As soon as we’re out of earshot, Ian stops and turns to me. ‘Promise me you’ll never turn into that.’

‘Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘Sorry. It’s just like my mother all over again.
Please
don’t become a nag.’

‘I’ll do my best, Ian,’ I say sarcastically.

‘Sorry. She just freaked me out.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘Come on.’ He links my arm like we’re an old couple; this on the day I discovered a grey hair.

Before we can reach Connor, he jumps up on his coffee table and taps the side of his glass with a spoon. The room falls silent.

‘So, thank you all for coming. Great to see everyone I care about here together in one room. Well, this is a going-away party, folks. I’m moving to London.’

‘You haven’t landed that MD job with Excell, have you?’ calls a guy beside me.

Connor’s smile says it all.

There’s a round of applause and some whooping.

‘So I’m standing up here like a tool to remind you all that I’ll be under an hour away by plane. And I have a spare room. A big one. So…
come
!’ He raises his glass. ‘To continued friendship.’

‘To continued friendship,’ rises a united voice.

He steps down and is surrounded by well-wishers, mostly female.

Ian hands me his glass. ‘Got to take a leak.’

I lower myself onto the arm of Connor’s couch to digest the news. Friend Number Two down. Maybe I
should
think about tennis.

‘Shove up,’ Connor says.

I move along. ‘I didn’t even know you were job hunting!’

‘I wasn’t. I got head hunted. Poor fools have no idea what they’re taking on!’

I laugh.

‘Let’s book your visit now.’

I give him a look.

‘I’m serious.’

‘Connor, I’m at home with two kids,’ I say, feeling a bit Frances-y.

‘Bring them. And Ian.’

I don’t drag up the issue of money. Knowing Connor, he’d offer to pay.

‘Sure I’ll see you when you’re in Dublin. I
assume
you won’t forget us.’

He looks at me, serious suddenly. ‘How could I?’

And I remember how close we once were.

CHAPTER TWELVE

I drive Mum to Kilcoole, a pebble beach at the foothills of the Wicklow Mountains. Mum and Dad first met here when Dad’s football landed on her picnic rug. Five years ago, we followed Dad’s last wishes and scattered his ashes here. If we wanted to visit him, he said, at least we’d get a trip to the sea. I was only glad that he opted for cremation. It meant that we finally got the cancer. Burned it to ashes, every last bit.

So here we are, sitting in silence on the very same picnic rug, looking out to sea.

‘Remember the dolphins,’ Mum says with a smile and I think she must be psychic.

I nod, smiling too. Dad stayed in the water while we shot out, fearing shark attack. The dolphins came right up to him and they swam together. He called us back in. And we went. Such was our trust in him. God, how I loved him, a bigger kid than us always, a total messer. I don’t remember any of my friends’ fathers being such fun.

‘He was a great dad,’ I say.

‘He loved you both so much.’

‘Wish he’d got to see Chloe and Sam.’

‘He does see them, sweetheart. I’m sure of it. I know he was a stubborn man when it came to his lack of faith but I know he got through those gates somehow.’ She smiles again, staring at the horizon. ‘He had his own way of doing things, your Dad, his own way of looking at the world; but he was a good man, Kim, a good man.’

On the way back, we stop off at a little church. Dad might have had his own way of doing things, but Mum does too.

If anyone
ever
asks me for advice on writing (unlikely), this is what they’ll get: Don’t tell anyone that you’re doing it. All you get is pressure. Sarah, on the line from Bangkok, has just asked if I’ve set myself a deadline.

‘What kind of deadline?’

‘You know – if you’re not published by a certain date, you’ll move on to something else.’

‘No, Sarah, no deadline.’

‘OK, change that.’

‘Why?’

‘It will keep you focused.’

‘Right.’

‘Well?’ she asks.

‘Well what?’

‘Have you come up with one?’

‘What, like now?’

‘No time like the present.’

I bite my hand – rather than her head off.

‘I’m waiting.’

‘All right then! Two years! I’ll give it two years. Happy?’

‘Seems a little on the long side.’

‘Call me patient. We can’t all be an overnight success.’

‘Did you get on to Jackie?’ Jackie is acting editor at
Girlfriend
. Sarah suggested to her that I write an opinion column for the magazine.

‘She said she’d get back to me.’

‘Let me call her, put a bit of fire under her ass.’

‘Maybe don’t. She might just resent me.’

‘No. She’ll resent me.’ She laughs. ‘OK, let’s flick ahead two years. What’ll you do if the novel doesn’t work out?’

‘I’ve two years to worry about that.’

‘True. But it’s always good to have a back-up plan. What’s yours?’

I hate the way Plan B keeps popping up – especially as it’s invalid – no money, no qualifications, no experience. ‘Open an art gallery.’

‘I can
see
that,’ she says as if she can’t see me as a novelist.

‘Anyway, how’s Bangkok?’

‘I’d give it a two on the dick front.’ She goes on to explain why, in sordid detail.

‘How’s Perfect Man?’

‘I’m keeping him keen.’

‘What, you’re not talking to him?’

‘No.’

‘But…’

‘I know what I’m doing.’

OK, that’s a line I need to learn. I hear her pull on a cigarette. ‘Wait. Are you back
smoking
?’

‘I wasn’t cut out to be good.’

I smile. ‘So where to next?’

‘Kenya. Then home, I think. I’m a bit shagged.’

‘Literally.’

She laughs – deep and hoarse. ‘Literally.’

‘Bet you miss the rain,’ I say, sarcastically.

‘What I miss about hom
e
is the rain, the greennes
s
…’

‘…and the pint of Harp.’

‘And the friends coming i
n
…’

‘And the pint of Har
p
…’

‘And Sally O’Brien and the way she might look at yo
u
…’

‘And the pint of Har
p
…’

‘You could fry an egg on the stones her
e
…’

‘If you had an eg
g
…’

‘And you could certainly sink a pint of Har
p
…’

‘If you had a pint of Harp.’

We laugh.

‘I can’t believe we remembered. That ad is ancient.’

‘You had the easy lines,’ she says. ‘Right. I better go.’

‘Good luck.’ I suppress the mummy in me who wants to remind her to use condoms.

‘Thanks, hon.’

And then I can’t help it: ‘Be careful out there.’

‘I’ll leave being careful to you.’

‘Hilarious.’

‘Joking. Ciao, hon.’

‘Ciao yourself.’

I call Jackie in
Girlfriend
and a few of my old contacts. If I could land a column, it would give me a profile which would make me more attractive to publishers.

Turns out, no one wants a column by Kim Waters. Why? Because Kim Waters doesn’t have a profile.

That settles it;
Peripheral Fear
is on official holidays. I need to do something about the kitchen before the kids break for the summer even if it’s to just paint the cupboards.

‘Any luck with the column?’ Ian asks over dinner.

I shake my head, then explain.

‘I can see their point. Who’d want to read about coffee mornings and cellulite?’

‘
Excuse
me?’

‘Joking.’

I raise my eyebrows. And fail to mention the break from writing.
Normally, I tell him everything.

I start to clear up. ‘Want to go to an art exhibition tomorrow? I’m going with Connor.’

He looks surprised. ‘Who’ll mind the kids?’

‘I’m just going to let them here on their own.’ Jesus. ‘Mum will mind the kids, Ian. So, you coming?’

‘What time?’

‘Six.’

He shakes his head. ‘Won’t be finished.’ Then he looks at me. ‘Why are you going to such hassle getting into town for six?’

‘It’s not a hassle. It’s the opposite. I never get out. Connor is moving to London next week. And the wine’s free.’ The last one’s a joke to lighten the mood.

‘OK.’

‘OK? I don’t need your permission, Ian.’

He looks at me like I’ve turned into Frances From The Party.

I am in love with a sculpture of an elongated, skinny man.

Connor, standing beside me says, ‘It’s good to have you all to myself.’

‘It’s good to
be
all by myself,’ I reply without taking my eyes from my new love interest.

‘You’re not. I’m here.’

I laugh. ‘You know what I mean. It’s just good to get out.’

‘I could be Quasimodo here and you’d still be happy – as long as you’re
out
.’

‘You know it.’ I laugh. But it
is
good to be out on my own. Not as a mum. Or wife. Just me. Kim – the person who is becoming less familiar with every passing day.

‘You love it, don’t you?’ he asks of the sculpture.

I nod. ‘It’s like a Modigliani.’ I continue to gaze at it, trying to record every detail to memory.

‘Buy it.’

I take out my phone and photograph it.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Buying it for free.’

‘Buy it, Kim, for Christ sake.’

And I hate to sound like Frances but: ‘I’m not working.’

‘Ian is.’

‘Yeah and I already hate relying on him for basic survival.’

‘What about the bestsellers?’

‘Bestsellers take time.’ I take a deep breath and turn to him. ‘Anyway, I’m taking a break.’

‘What? From writing?’

‘Just for the summer; don’t tell Ian.’

He looks at me in surprise. ‘Not like you to keep something from him.’

‘I know. I know. I’ll tell him. When the time’s right.’

‘Then let me buy it. A going-away pressie.’

‘Connor, the idea of a going-away pressie is to give it to the person going away.’

‘When have you ever known me to do anything the right way round?’

I look at him and smile. ‘Thanks but no thanks. I’ll buy it for myself – when I can.’

‘It won’t be here. It’ll be in someone else’s front room.’

I shrug.

‘Right then, let me buy it for myself and when you’re in the money you can buy it from me – if you still want it. How’s that?’

I look at him hopefully. ‘Seriously?’

He gives me an evil scientist look. ‘I have ulterior motives.’ He takes out his wallet. ‘Come to London or you’ll never see your little friend here again.’

I laugh. And hate that he’s going just when we had begun to hang out again.

I have to lie down with Sam to get him off to sleep. He gazes across at me. 

‘What’s you favwit twain? Pewcy or Thomas?’

I know what he’s up to and press his nose. ‘Sleep, mister.’ I turn over or we’ll be chatting all night.

He plays with my hair.

‘Sam if you don’t sleep, I’ll go.’

Big sigh. ‘’K.’

I wake to the sound of Ian coming in. I check my watch – ten past ten. He gets later every day. I get up, grab a hoodie and go down.

‘Hey,’ I say, coming into the kitchen.

He turns around. ‘Where were you?’

‘Upstairs, lying down with Sam.’

‘Well for some.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Swanning around art galleries, napping whenever you want.’

‘What are you talking about? I have the kids twenty-four-seven. Have you
any idea
how draining they can be?’

‘They’re good kids.’

‘I know they’re good. They’re great. But they’re kids. They demand, they fight, they whine. And they’re a constant responsibility. You’ve only yourself to look after. You can come and go as you please, do what you want, when you want. Leave the office. Meet people for lunch. Buy things for yourself.’ I look at yet another Brown Thomas bag he’s arrived home with.

‘Thought you said you weren’t going to become a nag.’

‘It’s you that’s becoming the nag, implying I’ve a great life and you don’t. I don’t have a great life. I’ve an OK life, like everyone else.’

‘Yeah but you’re doing what you want. And you’re still complaining.’

‘I’m
not
complaining. I’m defending myself – which I shouldn’t have to do. You think you’re the only person working around here and you’re not. You’re bloody not.’

‘Have you been drinking?’

‘I had a glass of wine. So?’

‘You’re drinking
and
minding children?’

‘One glass of wine.’

‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Nothing.’

‘What d’you mean? What am I supposed to eat?’

‘Whatever you want. You’re a grown man. Work something out. Am I supposed to have something on the table for you every evening? Today I didn’t get time. OK?’

‘Right. I’m eating in the canteen in future.’

‘You do that.’

‘Right, I will.’

‘Fine.’

‘I’m going out.’

‘Where?’

‘McBloodyDonald’s.’

I hope you choke, does not actually escape from my lips.

He slams the front door.

‘Anyone home?’ he asks an hour later, pulling back the duvet.

I’m under here, still trying to recover.

‘What was that about?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know,’ I sniffle.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.’ He sits on the side of the bed.

I sit up. ‘Is everything OK at work?’

‘Yeah.’

‘You’re not stressed or anything?’

He shakes his head.