All We Have Lost (9 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

An invitation arrives for Ian and, quelle surprise, his family. It’s a barbecue organized by his ‘firm’. On the plus side: it’s a day out together. But there is also this: I will spend my time chasing children while Ian talks business with work colleagues. And this: The women will probably be gorgeous.

‘I think I’ll give it a skip,’ I say to him when he arrives home from work.

‘You can’t.’ He shoots me a look.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s a family day.’ He thinks for a second then adds, ‘and they know I’ve a family.’

I laugh. It’s like he already considered the option of pretending we don’t exist. ‘You could say I was sick or something.’

‘Why don’t you want to go?’

Hmmm. Do I want to point out that I’m now a size fourteen and no longer in the workforce? ‘I dunno.’

‘Ah, come on. It’ll be great. Dave’s bringing his family. You’d love his wife, Emily.’

I don’t know Dave. What makes Ian think I’d like his wife? ‘Does she work?’

‘No.’

Ah, my answer, right there. Neither of us works therefore we will get on famously.

‘Please come, Kim. You’re always saying we don’t spend enough time together.’

It’s his first offer of time with us. I can’t throw it back in his face. ‘OK, I’ll go.’

‘Great! What’ll you wear?’

‘What?’

‘Just wondering what you’ll wear.’

‘Why?’ Is he afraid I’ll turn up in a shiny tracksuit and a pair of Sarah’s shoes? I’d have to buy a tracksuit. But I could. It’d be worth it just to see his face.

‘I’m trying to have a conversation. Isn’t that what you wanted? Jesus.’

‘Did I ask you what you’d be wearing?’

‘No but I’m happy to tell you. I’m wearing my chinos, this shirt and the navy rugby top thrown over my shoulders.’

I laugh. Then realise he’s serious.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing. I thought you were joking. You don’t usually plan your wardrobe.’

‘I’m still new – or at least I still feel it.’

‘The chinos would be perfect,’ is my apology. 

‘Can you wash and iron them for me? I’d like them to be fresh.’

That’s it. Where are the Golden Pages? I’m getting a new husband.

Barbecue Day dawns sunny. A sign, I hope. I have adopted the cunning use of posture and loose clothing. Sam and Chloe look respectable. Ian is immaculate. His recently commenced early morning jogs are paying off. Maybe Sarah is right. Maybe he is my sexy husband.

We arrive at Fitzwilliam Square on time. Ian introduces me to a few of his colleagues, then his boss. She reminds me of my ex-client, Maeve, not just in appearance but demeanor. Ice, basically. Superior Ice. Which sounds like a decent brand of vodka.

I’m glad when the formalities are over, though Ian, as expected, leaves me with the children. It’s a challenge keeping them out of trouble, what with the ready availability of raw meat and things to knock over, including themselves, the barbecue, other children, their father’s work colleagues and catering staff carrying hot food. I divert them to the bouncy castle and stand guard, ready for rescue.

And then I see her. She is every man’s dream – a blonde Betty Boop. But forget dreams – what’s she doing all over my husband? Touching his arm, whispering in his ear, hanging on his
every wonderful word. If Ian notices, he doesn’t let on, chatting casually to people I don’t know. Every so often she throws back her blonde head and laughs – with her whole body. I try to invoke calm. Breathe in blue, breathe out orange (advice of sadly-missed colour therapy book). I grip my sparkling water.

Ian glances over and when he catches me looking gives me an encouraging it’ll-all-be-over-soon smile. She follows his eyes and sees me. Lock on. I have never worried about other women; I will
not
start now. I turn back to the bouncy castle where life just couldn’t get any better. I c
an’t help it though: I glance back. Oh my God, she’s on her way over. I find myself pushing up my sleeves.

‘Kim?’ she breathes. She offers her hand, ‘I’m Melanie. We spoke on the phone?’

‘I remember,’ I say coldly. I also remember she was working late.

‘Ian’s such a great guyyyy. It’s so great working for him.’

‘Great.’ What can I say?

‘You’re so luckyyy.’

‘I am?’

She throws back that beautiful head as she laughs.

‘And what do youuu do? You’re at home, right?’

‘Actually, I write. Fiction,’ I say, hoping she won’t ask if I’ve a publisher, an agent or even a basic plot.

‘From hooome?’

‘Yup.’

She looks into the bouncy castle. ‘Which ones are yours?’

I point them out.

‘Sooo cute.’

‘You like children?’

‘Oh my God. I so love them.’

‘Maybe you’d like to mind mine for a while?’

She looks at me, unsure for the first time. Then she laughs but nervously. The suggestion gets rid of her. Off she totters, her excuse being an empty glass.

He never told me she was attractive. Correction. He never told me she existed.

I’m standing at the bathroom door, leaning against the frame. Ian is cutting his toenails into the toilet.

‘So when did you get a secretary?’

‘Melanie?’ He looks up casually. And I can’t tell if it’s too casually. ‘We took her on a few weeks ago. Didn’t I tell you?’

‘No. You didn’t.’

‘Yeah, well. Things have been hectic.’

‘I know.’

He turns and his voice softens. ‘There’s a big deal going through, should be finished soon.’

‘Maybe you could take a few days off.’

‘Yeah, maybe,’ he says uncertainly. ‘There’ll be a lot to tie up.’

‘As long as they’re not people.’

‘What?’

‘A joke, honey. A joke.’

‘Oh.’

‘She fancies you, you know.’

‘Who? Melanie? Does she?’ Altar boy innocence.

‘You know she does.’

‘OK so maybe she has a little crush. It’s harmless. Anyway, you
know
how I am with other women.’

And that’s why I never worry. I’ve always thought him overcautious, keeping a professional distance from the various child minders and babysitters we’ve had. Now I’m reassured. When I think about it, he hadn’t been encouraging Melanie. He hadn’t even been looking at her. He could have shaken her off though; he hates people clinging to him. But maybe she’s good for his image – a pretty, attentive secretary, hanging on his every word. Where would a pirate be without his parrot, a soldier without his stripes, a corporate financier without his secretary?

‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been spending more time at home. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’

‘The kids’ summer concert is coming up,’ I say hopefully.

He grimaces. ‘When?’

‘Last Friday in June.’

He makes a face. ‘I won’t make it, hon.’

Suddenly I’m close to tears. For once, he seems to notice. He takes me in his arms, something he hasn’t done in ages. But something’s different. It’s like he’s appeasing a child.

Connor calls and my smile is automatic.

‘There’s a man over here
pining
for Ireland. Come and
save
him.’

‘Pining as in: not eating, not sleeping, not functioning pining?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Aren’t there any nice London girls to cheer him up?’

‘Only you will do. He’s just not the same without you. He looked so happy leaving the art galler
y
…’

‘
Who
looked so happy leaving the art gallery?’

‘Modigliani man.’

‘Connor, are you trying to tell me that a piece of stone wants me in London?’

‘Well, I could also do with some serious slagging.’

‘How about some telephone slagging?’

‘Not the same. Sorry.’

‘Not sure how I can help then; I can’t come over with the entire posse.’

‘Course you can.’

‘I wouldn’t be able to give you my full slagging attention.’

‘That might not be a bad thing. Come on, Kim. It’d be great to see you all. I’m so bored.’

‘How’s the job?’

‘Job’s actually good. Challenging. And I’ve found an amazing apartment. Loads of room. Could fit a family.’

I smile. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

‘Great art galleries over here.’

I sigh.

‘And parks for the kids. And restaurants.’

Maybe I should stop fighting this. ‘Let me see how much the flights cost. No promises.’

‘Excellent!’

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sarah calls from New York City.

‘The search is off. I’ve found him – Perfect Man.’

‘I thought you already had.’

‘Seems there are degrees of perfect.’

‘So who is
this
guy?’

‘An artist. Sculptor, specifically.’

‘Wow.’ I’m thinking Leonardo, Michelangelo, Picasso.

‘Name’s The
o
…’

He’s even got the ‘o’.

‘It’s true what they say about youth,’ she says, dreamily.

‘How young is he?’ I ask cautiously.

‘Twenty-thre
e
…’

Actual relief. Over the age of consent, then. I’d worried that the research might have sent her over the edge.

‘He’s
so
hot, Kim.’

I could definitely be more interested. ‘Yeah?’

‘Not a million miles from Ian, actually.’

‘Describe him.’

‘Pink and orange hair. Totally fit. Hung like a horse.’

‘Just like Ian.’ Sometimes there is no understanding her thought process. ‘How did you two meet?’

‘I answered an ad for an artist’s model
.’

I imagine what it must be like, hanging out with an artist in New York City. ‘So, has he taken you to the Met?’

‘No.’

‘Museum of Modern Art?’

‘No.’

‘The
Guggenheim
?’

‘No.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

‘Use your imagination,’ she says, huskily. ‘Anyway, just rang to say I’m coming home. My publisher wants me to start my promotional tour in Dublin. Seems I’ll be all over the media. Every paper you pick up, there I’ll be, grinning back at you.’

Scary. ‘And what about Theo?’

‘Oh, Theo’s coming. I’m his muse. And he’s mine. It’s the perfect relationship.’

‘Relationship; that’s new.’

She sighs dreamily. ‘I know. I’ve never felt like this before.’

‘Wow. That’s great. I’m so happy for you.’ I think back to when I first met Ian. We had that, then. All of it. Now it feels like I’m remembering two people I barely know.

Ian doesn’t make the children’s concert. Mum makes up for his absence with positive energy and cheery smiles. I hide my disappointment. There are other absent dads of course. But they probably never make these things. Ian used to. Always.

The children are bewitching. Sam has roles as a doctor, a prince and the sun. Chloe is typecast as a frog. But such a cute frog. I’m incredibly proud and struggle to record them and still witness some of the fun without a lens separating us. And yes, I
am
one of those mums. It’s either look ridiculous or trust the scene to memory and I’ve invested too much to have it forgotten.

Post-concert, we go on a Treat Picnic. It’s meant to consist of nothing but treats, some healthy (dried apricots, juice and popcorn) and some not (Skittles, Rancheros, wine gums and Curly Wurlys) but Mum breaks the rules and brings along some home-made scones. I forgive her when I taste them. We keep fruit pastilles for Ian – his favourites – or at least they used to be. I’m not sure of anything about my husband any more. The children make us laugh and I log this memory, instinct telling me I might need it.

Like a squirrel, I’ve started to store the good times. Sam climbing rocks singing, ‘We will, we will wok you’. Chloe telling me that dogs ‘drizzle’. Sam tottering around in my forgotten high heels with his trousers at half-mast. The kids asleep, still and floppy, small, pale and vulnerable. Hugs. Kisses. Cuddles. Little legs running. Little hands tickling. Brief moments captured in time – shrimp hunts, pillow fights, dressing up, rolling down slopes, eating bread meant for ducks, being given weeds – memories I’ve begun to stockpile as clouds gather on the horizon.

I spend the summer making Jacuzzis (take a children’s paddling pool, add washing up liquid and warm water), building sandcastles, applying sunscreen, witnessing growth spurts, discovering the endless potential of the simple handkerchief and learning the basics of first aid. But the hardest thing is trying to come up with answers for things I don’t understand. Like why planes crash if a window breaks. Why some animals are meat-eaters while others won’t touch the stuff. Why the sun never burns out. And why their dad is never home.

Deirdre French keeps popping up everywhere. On the radio – receiving the Woman of the Year Award for her contribution to literature. In the newspaper – topping the bestsellers list. Her success is a glaring reminder of all the two thousand words I’ve let fall between the keys, of the plots that stank and the characters that never came to life.

In the evening, when I could be writing, I spend what’s left of my energy trying to interest Ian in the comings and goings of family life. It proves a bad investment. I witness him lose all semblance of interest in us, not even bothering to pretend any more. I get used to putting three plates on the table and remembering not to call him for meals.

When he
is
home I often wish he weren’t.

‘You never wear your black trouser suit any more,’ he says with audible regret.

I know my clothes have taken on a heavy animation influence but: ‘You want me to wear a suit around the house now?’

‘No.’

‘When then?’

‘I don’t know, maybe when we go out.’

‘When
do
we go out?’ Now that Angela has left to see the world and Sally has moved to Cork.

‘In theory.’

‘You want me to wear a suit when we theoretically go out?’

‘I don’t know.’

I could call Sarah in frustration. But I know what would happen. She’d ask if I’m wearing leopard-skin lingerie. And she’s a feminist.

So I do it. Buy the lingerie. Get my hair cut. Subject myself to some serious waxing. I even squeeze into the black trouser suit and lie in wait. Nine o’clock comes and goes. The killer knickers are riding up my bum. Ten o’clock and I’m beginning to wonder how big an idiot I am when, finally, in he walks.

‘What’s for dinner?’ are his first words. Not, you’ll notice, ‘you look stunning’, ‘love the hair’ or ‘get naked now’.

I clear my throat, then, in an attempt at sultry, I look down at the suit.

Blank. Totally blank.

I give up. ‘Pasta.’

‘With that sauce you’re always buying?’

‘With that sauce I’m always buying.’

‘Oh.’

He sits at the kitchen table expecting to be served.

I land it down in front of him. I run upstairs and rip off the suit. I fire those sexy ass-cutters in the bin. The under-wired bra gets mangled and meets the same fate. I drag on my old reliables: comfortable PJs, socks and hoodie. I flop onto the bed, beginning to feel my toes again, beginning to feel myself again. Is there anything as unsexy as a desperate woman? Oh yes, an available one. Before, I had a reason to dress up: work. Now I’ve none. And if it’s not good enough for him he can shag bloody well off.

The helpful suggestions keep coming. I should take more exercise. Have I thought of using colour in my hair? Someone in work lost a stone at Weight Watchers. Almost to spite him, I dress down, eat up and watch my ass finally give in to gravity. Eventually, I get sense and just ignore him. He does the same to me.

When I buy a very essential tumble dryer without checking the bank balance, he takes to muttering, conducting little tête-à-têtes with himself for minor offences like the way I make dinner, hang the clothes on the line, walk, eat, breathe, live. I’m not perfect. But I never was. And he didn’t seem to mind before.

Bed has become a popular hiding place. He uses it. I use it. At separate times, obviously, to avoid seeing, hearing, smelling, touching or, heaven forbid, tasting each other. Our conversations, such as they are, revolve around mortgages, bills, schools and repairs. Plenty of flat monosyllables involved. Enough to make me want to scream just for variety. What-do-you-thinks and how-do-you-feels are part of our past. We have become lodgers, sharing accommodation but not our lives. Gone are calls from the office to see how I am. I’m no longer on his agenda, except when he wants me to do something. Angela has gone to see the world. There are days I want to do the same.