All We Have Lost (10 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

One evening, to get away, I call over to Mum’s.

‘So, how is everything?’ she asks, pretending not to be surprised to see me at this time. She folds away
The Irish Times
crossword. Out comes the carrot cake and on goes the kettle.

‘Fine. How’re things with you?’

‘I was going to ring you actually. I’ve a little bit of news.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, it’s nothing reall
y
…’

Which means it’s something.

She clears her throat. ‘You know Charles Bradshaw – my solicitor?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Well, we’ve actually been out on a… date or two. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Why would I mind?’ Outside of the fact that Charles Bradshaw is a total plonker and she deserves better.

‘You know that no one will ever replace your father, Ki
m
.’

‘I know, Mum.’

‘And a woman can get lonely…’

Don’t I know it? ‘If anyone deserves some fun, it’s you.’

‘Charlie’s good compan
y
.’

‘
Oooh
! “
Charlie”
already? You don’t hang around.’

‘Stop.’ She slaps my arm. ‘You’re terrible.’ But I can tell she’s delighted.

‘Do I detect a little blush?’

‘I’m a bit long in the tooth for blushing. Charlie has been very kind, that’s all.’

‘Can’t fool me. I know looove when I see it.’

‘He’s a good listener. And it’s only been three early birds.’

‘Mum, stop trying to defend yourself. Just enjoy it. I’m really happy for you.’

She smiles in relief. ‘Thanks, love. I just thought I should mention it. Just so you know.’

‘Well, carry on,’ I say in my best Sergeant Major accent.

The kettle boils and she gets up to make the tea.

While her back is turned, I innocently say: ‘I never saw you and Dad fight but you must have sometimes, right?’

‘Of course we had our arguments. Everyone does, don’t they?’

‘But were there bad patches, you know, times when maybe you didn’t talk to each other?’

She turns and eyes me carefully.

‘Just wondering,’ I add.

She carries the tea to the table but forgets to pour, too busy looking at me.

‘All marriages go through bad patches. It’s hard when two people are together all the time, especially with the demands of children. But I think that no matter what, you have to try and keep the lines of communication open. Never let the sun go down on an argument.’

‘That’s a cliché.’

‘There’s truth in every cliché. Kim, if you’re worried about something, talk it through.’

Oh crap. Here come the tears.

‘Aw, love. What is it?’

I shrug not trusting myself to speak or it’ll all come tumbling out. 

‘Why don’t I babysit at the weekend? Let you and Ian out for a chat.’

I shake my head. I can picture it now, staring across some irrelevant meal with nothing to say to each other, like those sad couples you see and want to cheer up.

‘How about next Friday night? Whatever this is don’t let it simmer. Nip it in the bud.’

I sigh deeply.

‘
I’ve just bought
The Aristocats
movie for the children. I’d love an excuse to watch it with them.’

‘What about you and Charles?’

‘Honey, I think Charlie can survive a night without me. This is the man you love.’

Right now I don’t feel very loving towards him. But this is our marriage. I have to do something to save it. So I nod. ‘Thanks Mum.’ 

Friday arrives and, though I’m dreading the evening, I take such care getting ready. Then, I sit well outside the splatter zone while the kids eat their dinner.

‘Dis basketti is scwumptious,’ says Sam, sucking up a long string of spaghetti.

Lovely to hear a) my favourite word, basketti and b) someone compliment my food.

But actually, they’re
so slow
.

‘Come on guys, Granny’ll be here soon.’

‘Can I be finished?’ Chloe asks.

‘Two more spoonfuls.’

She gobbles them down. And jumps from the table.

‘Me too?’ Sam asks.

‘All right.’ They won’t die of starvation.

Mum arrives looking gorgeous. Must be love.

I take the DART into town and walk to Ian’s office.

I have to wait at reception for fifteen minutes before he appears. But he looks incredibly handsome and I smile, not quite believing that this man is married to me. What is happening to me?

We go to Guilbaud's. And I’m not sure that that doesn’t reek of desperation.

Small talk isn’t happening. I see him look at my hands and realise I’m fidgeting.

‘Ian? Can we talk?’

He loosens his tie, clears his throat. ‘Yeah, sure.’

‘Do you think we’re getting on?’

He hesitates. ‘Do you?’

I smile. ‘I asked you first.’

His return smile is stiff. ‘It’s been tricky since you gave up work. You’ve become…’ He pauses. ‘Sensitive.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Keep calm. Breathe.

‘I feel I can’t say anything or you’ll bite my head off.’

Don’t bite his head off. ‘Anything else?’

‘Well, we’re not having fun any more, are we?

Don’t sound accusatory. ‘Why do you think that is?’

‘Well, you seem a bit down since giving up work.’

‘
I
seem down? You’re the one it’s bothering.’

‘
What
?’

‘I’m just not good enough for you any more. Am I?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Maybe I am a bit sensitive. Maybe I am a bit down. Did you ever think of asking why? There’s the fact that you’re never home. There’s the fact that when you are, you give the distinct impression that you’d rather not be. And there’s the
fact
that I’m trying my bloody best.’ I cover my face. Tears were not on the agenda. Neither was blame. Once again, I’ve screwed up.

And still, it could turn around. This man could reach out to this woman. He could hold her hand and tell her what she needs to hear. That he loves her. Still admires her. That she’s good looking, has a great ass, is a super mum and that he’s sorry he’s been busy but he’ll try to be around more and that he finds his family fascinating,
fascinating
human beings.

Does this happen?

No.

The bill arrives.

With perfect timing, the credit card machine malfunctions and Ian is asked to sign the old fashioned way. He digs his signature in, tearing through the entire thing. The waiter practically sprints from the table. Ian stands suddenly and strides off as if he can’t get away from me fast enough. I follow at my own pace, clinging to my posture like it’s all I have left.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

It’s sausages that convince me to go to London. It happens like this: Sam and Chloe place an order of rashers and sausages with the Kitchens. While I’m at it, I ask Ian if he wants anything. Three sausages, comes his exact reply.

‘How many did you do for me?’ he asks when I place one in front of him.

‘Three.’

‘Where are the other two?’

I look at him. ‘Cooking,’ I say, rather than, ‘up my sleeve’.

‘I wanted them at the same time.’

‘Are you
serious
?’ I don’t include the word ‘fucking’ – there are children present.

‘Mu..uu..um,’ whines Sam. ‘You neva got me a fowk.’

I roll my eyes and retrieve the desired utensil. ‘You know, sometimes I feel like moving to a desert island inhabited only by women.’

‘Can I come?’ asks Chloe enthusiastically.

‘Yes, honey, you can.’ I kiss the top of her head.

Then I decide. London will be my desert island.

I wait till that evening to tell Ian.

‘Why?’ he asks sitting on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.

‘You’ll be off at that conference anyway. And I need a break.’

‘Can’t you wait till I get back and we’ll all go on a weekend away together?’

As if that would
ever
happen. ‘That’d be great. But I’m also going to London. You won’t be here to miss us. I may as well.’

‘But why do you have to go and see Connor?’ He’s standing now, facing me.

‘He’s the only one inviting us. And I’m not spending money on a hotel. I thought you’d be glad. The flights are so cheap.’

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit iffy going off to stay with another man?’

I laugh. ‘We’re talking about Connor here, not some sex God.’

‘What about his drink problem?’

‘Connor doesn’t drink.’

‘Yeah but we all know what happens when he does.’

‘That was a long time ago. He hasn’t touched the stuff since. It’s not as if he’s an alcoholic. Drink just doesn’t suit him.’

‘He has the hots for you, you know.’

‘What?!’ Now who’s paranoid?

‘Maybe you don’t notice but I do.’

‘You just don’t want me to go.’

‘No. I don’t. He has a history of violence.’

‘When he drinks. Which he doesn’t.’

‘I don’t want you to bring my kids over there.’

All of a sudden they’re
his
kids. As for his opinion of Conno
r
… ‘You know, Connor sees you as a friend.’

‘OK, let’s not fool ourselves here. Connor is your friend. I tolerate him.’

Jesus. ‘Big of you.’

‘Why do we always have to fight?’ He drags on a T-shirt and walks into the bathroom.

I follow. ‘On this occasion because I stand up for my friends. And for the record, that is what Connor is. A friend. He doesn’t fancy me. I’m not his type.’

He turns from the sink, toothbrush in hand. He does a deliberate head-to-toe sweep of me, then says, ‘I suppose you’re right,’ as if he means, ‘you wouldn’t be anyone’s type.’

‘I’m going. With or without your approval.’

‘Sure, go ahead, what do I care?’ He flings his toothbrush into the sink as if he cares very much and then sighs, his millionth this month.

I lie in bed, seething. My friendship with Connor goes back to school. Whatever relationships we were in, we always stayed friends, best friends. But you can’t be best friends with a guy when you’re married. I gave up our closeness for Ian. And now he pulls this. Drink isn’t a problem and he knows it.
Once
Connor reacted badly to it. Some eejit started moving in on his girlfriend. Connor lost it. The guy ended up in hospital. Connor got sorted with a psychologist, stopped drinking. End of story. End of problem. It should
not
be used against him. I’m sorry I ever told Ian. But then I tell him everything. Or at least I used to.

The days pass with mounting excitement. Sam because he’ll be going on the Underground; Chloe because she’ll be going on a plane; and me because I am: a) getting away b) seeing Connor c) going to London and d) not coming back. OK d)’s a joke. For now, I’m off and feeling a little giddy.

Ian calls from work wondering what time we’re flying out on Friday. Apparently, he’d like to see us off. Why the sudden interest? I’m available round the clock.

‘Actually, we’re going on Thursday.’

‘Thursday? I thought you said the weekend?’

‘Long weekend. The flights are less expensive that way. We leave Thursday, back Sunday night.’

‘OK. Whatever.’

I soften. ‘Ian, you won’t be home anyway. And we’ll all be in better form when we see each other again. I know we will.’

‘Gotta go here.’

‘OK. Off you go.’

‘Off you go,’ he says unhappily.

In Arrivals, Connor breaks into a smile and waves exaggeratedly.

I laugh. ‘Eejit.’

Physical contact (his simple hug) is a recipe for tears. But I am strong. I am a warrior.

‘It’s so good to see you!’ he says. Not: ‘God, you look terrible,’ or any of the wide variety of ass comments he could make, like: ‘What happened to your ass?’ or ‘I see you’ve brought your ass,’ or ‘How did you get THAT through Customs?’
He just whirls us away.

Driving through London in his open-top, I begin to feel human.

His pad in Chelsea is minimalist chic. Modigliani man fits right in.

Oh my God. He’s gone out and bought a little wooden train for Sam, a fairy outfit for Chloe and a miniature painting for me.

‘Jesus, Connor.’

‘Didn’t want you guys to be bored here in the bachelor pad.’

He pours me a glass of wine, instructs me to sit down and puts a coffee-table book on Art Deco into my hands. Then he transforms into a horse and plays with my kids. I am
so grateful to let someone else take over for a while.

When they are, finally, tucked up in Connor’s gigantic spare bed, (Chloe still wearing her new fairy outfit and Sam holding his train), Connor makes cocktails. His is non-alcoholic. Mine is a Cosmopolitan. He holds out a frosted glass housing an icy pink drink and it feels like I’m on holidays.

‘Cheers!’ he says. ‘Dinner in a sec.’

‘Connor! We can get takeaway!’

‘I’ve everything ready to go. Was busy chopping while you were putting the kids to bed. Anyway it’s just stir-fry.’

‘Want a hand?’

‘I cook alone.’

Thank God, I think, closing my eyes and tilting my head back. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Then I take another sip. Watching Connor clatter around the kitchen brings me back to a time when a young economist, trying to impress his new girlfriend, cooked her a meal. Out of tune and using the wooden spoon as a mike, he sang, ‘Climb every woman.’ He wasn’t trying to be funny; just didn’t know the lyrics. And that was it, the exact moment I fell in love.

I don’t know when I last heard Ian sing or look as carefree as Connor does now. Last time I saw him laugh was at the
barbeque. My heart sinks as I realise the truth: he is happier at work than at home. I knock back what is fast becoming Cosmo-medicine.