All We Have Lost (3 page)

‘Right then. If I’ve any questions I’ll e-mail.’

‘Or call.’

So she can talk for hours, milking my brains? No thank you.

Though we’re technically finished, Maeve manages to drag the meeting on. And I don’t, to my credit, get visibly angry, pull her hair, leave prematurely, or kill her.

As soon as I’m out, I call Ian and arrange to meet for coffee.

He calms me down, makes me laugh and I pray that he’ll be as available when a bank owns him.

CHAPTER THREE

Every day, before noon, I’m guaranteed a ‘quick hello’ from Ian. Today, it doesn’t come. It’s his first day in the new job and I’m dying to know how it’s going. I could call him but don’t know his direct line, if he has one. I could ring his mobile but don’t want to interrupt a potential power meeting with his new boss. I could call AGT Corporate Finance and go through reception. That would leave a great impression – the new boy’s wife is on the phone; can’t survive a few hours without him.

So I wait.

I come home early (six) so I’m there to greet him.

No need, it turns out. He’s late (eight).

‘How did it go?’ is my new welcome home.

‘Fine. What’s for dinner?’

‘Sally’s chicken curry.’

‘Great. I’ll just go up to the kids.’

‘They’re asleep. Sorry. I kept them up as long as I could.’

He smiles. ‘Role reversal.’

He goes up to them anyway.

‘So?’ I try again when we sit down to eat.

He zones in on his curry like he hasn’t eaten in a year.

‘Ian. You started a new job today, remember?’

‘Vaguely.’ He smiles.

‘Should I ask a series of multiple choice questions or are you just going to tell me how it went?’

‘Probably best to ask the questions.’

I shake my head sadly. ‘OK. What’s the place like?’

‘Fine. Modern.’

‘Have you your own office?’

‘Yep.’

Blood from a stone. ‘What’s it like?’

‘Fine. View of Stephen’s Green.’

‘Do you’ve a secretary?’

‘A communal one. Probably won’t use her much.’

‘What’s your boss like?’

‘She’s all right.’

‘
She?
’

‘Yeah. Actually, Kim, I’m kind of shattered. Let’s talk about your day. How was it?’

‘Boring.’ Seeing as everyone’s being honest.

We’re silent.

I should just say it, the way Sarah would. A dream is a dream. I can make it happen. Here goes.

‘How would you feel about me taking a career break?’ OK, so Sarah would have made it an announcement, not a question.

He frowns. ‘A career break?’

‘Yeah from PR.’

‘For how long?’

‘I don’t know. For good, maybe?’

‘Then it wouldn’t be a career break.’

‘No.’

‘What would you do instead?’

‘Maybe write a novel?’ I straighten, annoyed with myself for the ‘maybe’.

‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with Sarah, would it?’

‘Ian, this may surprise you, but I do have a mind of my own. I wanted to write a novel long before she did.’

‘It’s just all a bit sudden.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it for ages.’ And talking myself out of it every time. 

‘But writing
a novel
, Kim – what makes you think you can do it?’

‘What makes you think I can’t?’

‘There’s no need to get defensive. You know I’ve every confidence in you. What would you do with the business, though?’

I shrug.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’d just walk away from a lucrative business? With no agent lined up? No publisher? Do you even have an idea for a novel?’

The answer, we both know, is no.

‘Shouldn’t you try it out first before giving everything up?’

‘It’s not just about writing. It’s the kids. They don’t know me – not really. I’m the woman who sees them before they go to bed (on a good day) and is nice to them. I don’t even get cross like real mums in case they stop loving me. They run to Sally when they fall. Ian, it’s time I got my priorities right.’

He looks at me for a long time. ‘OK. Let’s talk about our options,’ he says like we’re in a business meeting.

‘What options?’

‘Well, what about letting some of your clients go and using the extra time to write and see more of the kids?’

I feel my body tense. ‘That would be OK if I
could
carry on in PR but I can’t, Ian. It seems so pointless. So irrelevant. So stupid.’

‘What’s got in to you?’

‘Nothing.’ Burnout, maybe.

‘OK, what about selling the business? Build it up and sell it on. You could make a fortune.’

‘I can’t wait that long.’

‘Why not?’ His voice is impatient now.

‘I just can’t do it any more. I’m tired of plugging Flush toilet cleaner to the world. How excited can a person get about sunscreen, year after year? Life’s too short, Ian. Do you know what age I am?’

‘Thirty-three – not exactly ancient, Kim.’

‘I could be dead next year.’

He smiles.

‘Well, I
could
. And how would I feel, breathing my last, knowing that I didn’t make the most of my final year on earth?’

‘And what if – as I sincerely hope you do – you live to be eighty-seven?’

‘Well then, well then… When I finally do die, I’d like to be able to look back over my life at all the things I’d done and say, “Yes, I have
lived
. Yes, my children
knew
me.”’

He smiles. ‘Then, do it.’

‘Really? You think I should?’

‘Yeah I do.’

‘But you’re not permanent yet.’

‘Well, you could always think about it for a bit longer.’

‘Right. OK. I’ll do that.’ Now that it’s a possibility, it has become suddenly scary.

9am and already there’s a message from Maeve asking me to call her urgently.

Though it kills me, I do it.

‘Oh, Kim, great! You got my message?’

‘You said it was urgent?’

‘Yeah, I was ringing about the proposal you presented yesterday. It’s a little light on activities, isn’t it?’

That
urgent? ‘That’s all the budget allows, Maeve. If you want to increase it, I can by all means add more activities.’

‘I’m sure we did a lot more last year for the same price.’

I take a deep breath; then count to five. ‘Let me pull out last year’s proposal. Actually, why don’t I call you back?’ I don’t need to look at last year’s proposal; I consulted it when preparing this one. Contrary to what she thinks (or would have me believe she thinks), I’m not trying to screw her. I make myself a coffee. I check Twitter and the morning’s newspapers for mentions of my clients. After fifteen minutes, I call her back.

‘Maeve, looking at last year’s activities, I realise that I’ve under-budgeted this year’s proposal.’

‘Oh. Really? Wow. OK. Well, I can’t increase the budget, Kim. It’s fixed. My hands are tied.’

I push back a cuticle. ‘All right, let’s leave it at that then but we’ll have to revisit it, next year.’ The thought that I mightn’t be around gives me the sweetest thrill. And just to remind myself why I mightn’t be around, I flick through the proposal I’ve just presented to her.

Activity No. 1: Press Conference – Caffeine is Good For You – new research.

Activity
No. 2: Celebrity endorsements – sponsor celebrities to be seen and photographed in public with client’s drink in hand.

Activity No. 3: Photoshoot – Twelve Green Bottles (life-sized) Hanging On A Wall with twelve Big Brother contestants pushing them off.

Activity No. 4: Sponsor university rag week.

Activity No. 5: Mother’s Day competition on daytime TV.

Once we get over the budget issue, Maeve claims to love the proposal. I wonder if I can spend a year implementing it. I’m particularly depressed about Activity No. 3. How did I come up with it? I’m slowly losing all credibility with myself.

People like Maeve are actually great, though. Because they make you think. Things like: life’s too short; I’m selling myself short; if only my working day was really short; and what a short fuse I have. I can taste freedom in the air. I imagine days spent writing, not listening to her, not editing and re-editing her press releases then changing them back to the original, not reassuring her, not appeasing her. Just making up stories. Stories where people follow their dreams, where mothers can be with their children, where the main character can quit and still win.

I know now. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to carry out my proposal for Maeve. Maybe – subconsciously – I made it so ridiculous on purpose, knowing that I could never be able to go through with it. I can’t do this to myself any more. I need to believe in what I do, in myself. I need a challenge. I need to be with my children. I need to quit.

Ian will be made permanent. And I’ll become a bestseller.

CHAPTER FOUR

If kidnapped by aliens, blindfolded and returned, I’d know I was in my mum’s kitchen by smell alone. The reassurance of home baking; I could do an article on it. Or not.

Mum looks at me as if I have, in fact, agreed to take off with aliens.

‘But why?’

‘I’m tired, Mum.’

‘Tired?’

‘Yes, tired. Tired of having to think up news angles and PR proposals for non-newsworthy, boring products. Tired of writing creative captions for pictures of cheesy businessmen in grey suits. Tired of having to be gung-ho about Flush bloody toilet cleaner. I’m tired of being enthusiastic.’

She’s wearing her understanding smile but I know she’s no clue what I’m talking about.

‘I know you’ve been a bit busy lately but I thought you loved PR. You’ve always said it’s the best job you’ve ever had.’

‘It was. Not any more.’ I sigh. ‘It’s my own fault. I’ve been working too hard for too long. I just can’t do it any more. D’you know how many weeks’ holidays I’ve had in nine years?’

‘How many?’ It’s a regularly expressed concern of hers. She’s probably got them counted.

‘Nine. One a year. And maternity leave?’

‘You
know
how I felt about that. I still can’t believe you insisted on bringing your phone into the labour ward.’

‘Kim Waters PR – contactable between contractions.’ I roll my eyes at myself. ‘I’m just too busy, all the time, no let up. The phone is always ringing. Clients always want more. The kids need their mum and, since Ian started his new job, we’re both home late most evenings. It’s not a life.’

‘That’s desperate. I didn’t realise you were under such pressure.’ She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. ‘You must stop.’

I let go the breath I seem to have been holding for a very long time.

‘Spend more time with Chloe and Sam.’ She smiles. ‘And that lovely mother of yours. Oh and don’t worry about the cooking – I can give you loads of recipes.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

She laughs. But persists. ‘How about my Bolognese sauce? You all love that.’

‘Let’s start with that ready-made sauce you mentioned that you just add to pasta?’

She hesitates. ‘Usually I add bits and pieces to that, to give it texture – a few chopped peppers, mushroom
s
…’

‘But I
could
just stir it in as it is, couldn’t I?’

‘You could bu
t
…’

‘Sure, I’ll start with that. Thanks.’

She gives me a jar to get me going. I turn it around in my hand, automatically wondering who does their PR. I dismiss the thought.

‘Let me give you the Bolognese recipe as well. It’s so easy.’

‘Mum, if I do quit, it’ll be to write a novel and spend time with the kids. I won’t have time for culinary delights. Just the basics.’ Enough to keep starvation at bay.

‘Really? A
novel
?’ asks my mother the reader, recipe forgotten.

I nod.

She clasps her hands together. ‘You’ve always
loved
books. Oh Kim this
is
wonderful news. What kind of novel?’

‘A murder mystery, I think.’

She covers her mouth. She’s a crime fan, the gorier the better. She leans forward.

‘Have you any of it written? Can I’ve a little peep?’

‘I haven’t started it yet.’

‘Oh,’ she says, a little deflated but by no means put off. ‘And love scenes? Are there going to be any love scenes?’

‘You mean SEX scenes?’ It’s good to scare your mother, occasionally.

‘You know what I mean, you monkey.’

Thirty-three and she still calls me monkey.

‘I don’t know. There’s not a lot of passion in murder mysteries, is there? They’re more plot-driven, aren’t they?’

‘Well, maybe you should have just a little one.’

I love this woman.

Then I think of her – and everyone I know – reading the ‘little’ sex scene and projecting Ian and me into it. I shiver.

‘I’ve such admiration for you,’ she says. ‘You’ve always done your own thing. You’re great.’

I grimace. ‘
Is
it the right thing, though, giving up my independence? It’s not really me, is it?’

She considers that. ‘Well, you’ve always valued your independence but it would be a mistake to let it hold you back. Don’t let it stop you from following your dream.’

Wow. She’s starting to sound like me. Only it makes more sense when she says it.

‘You’re lucky to have Ian’s support. Lean on it for a change. You supported him to go back to college and you weren’t even married then. Anyway, it won’t be for long. You’ll be producing bestsellers in no time.’

Mum’s dangerous. Tell her you’re about to jump off a cliff and she’ll be right behind you, cheering you on, thinking of all the ways she could possibly help.

‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ she asks.

‘Ian isn’t made permanent?’

‘You could always get another job.’

‘You have a point.’

‘There’s a reason you’re sitting in my kitchen.’

We smile.

‘Thank you, oh wise one.’

‘You’re welcome, Grasshopper.’