The Real Liddy James (34 page)

“How are you? How are the boys?” she said.

“All good. Vince Junior got into Harvard.”

“You must be very proud.”

“We are. How are Matty and Cal?”

“All good too.”

Curtis momentarily stopped seething in the backseat to hammer on the inside of the window.

“How's he treating you?” asked Liddy.

“Easy.” Vince turned to go, then paused and looked back conspiratorially. “He works less hours than you.”

Liddy nodded, stepped back, and watched as the car pulled away.
So that was that
, she thought. She found herself looking up again at the rainbow, which was fading, washing out like a watercolor. Her phone rang and she grabbed it, knowing Rose would be calling to see how the meeting had gone.

But instead there was an echo on the line, a pause and then, “Liddy? . . .” Another echo and then again, too loud, “LIDDY? . . .”

“Don't shout. I can hear you.”

Liddy had summoned all her formidable resources to expunge Sebastian Stackallan from her day-to-day thoughts, and had largely succeeded, but now that she heard his voice she was more delighted than she would have guessed to hear from him.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“I've just been to Lisbeth's funeral.”

“Ah,” he said. “I heard. She was a magnificent woman.”

“Where are you?” she said.

“I'm standing in the field behind the wood with Seamus, trying to wrangle a runaway cow.”

“And you thought of me? How touching!”

“Don't start!” he said, and even though he was thousands of miles away, she knew he was smiling.

“How did you get my new number?”

“Sydney. Now,
there's
someone who's got a thing for me.”

Liddy ignored this. “I'm looking at a rainbow.”

“How very
Darby O'Gill and the Little People
. How are you?”

“I'm going to try journaling to find out.”

There was a pause, then a peal of laughter.

“And I just told Curtis Oates I was quitting my job.”

“Holy God, I wish I coulda seen that. Why?”

“I can't do it anymore. Or for the moment, certainly.”

In the background the wind blew and the cow mooed.

“So,” Liddy said. “Were you calling for a reason?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I'm sorry I disappeared like that. I . . . Look . . . I was thinking about everything . . . the moving to Ireland business and the not-waiting wheelchair stuff and so forth. . . .”

Liddy said nothing.

“I think we'd better have a proper date first.”

“Sorry, I can't hear you . . .” she said, but she had heard him perfectly.

“Will you go out with me?”

“How? On Skype?”

“No! I still have to visit New York. I've got a board meeting next week.”

She grinned. “I'm not a lost cause, you know,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“You don't need to save me.”

“What on earth are you on about?”

“Nothing, nothing. Call me when you get in.”

“Good,” he said calmly. “I want you to know I feel curiously optimistic. What are you going to do now?”

“I don't know. That's the truth, but it's not good enough, is it? What do I want? How shall I live? How can I do the best for my boys and still be me? All these questions and I find myself saying the same thing over and over again.
I don't know
.”

In the field behind the wood, Sebastian Stackallan thought for a moment.

“Then ‘I don't know' is the answer,” he said.

NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER 5

Tonight is my last night in this apartment and, as I sit here surrounded by crates and cardboard boxes and color charts left by Lloyd's interior designer, I suspect this will be my first and last go at journaling.

I can already tell it's not my thing.

I've organized enough work to keep the family afloat for the foreseeable future, but it'll be a three-star life for the boys from now on. I'm going to consult for Marisa at Rosedale and Seldon, and I'm giving a few lectures at Columbia University. I'll be working from home too, in the new place in Prospect Heights, which is good because I have a lot of furniture to be delivered.

Cal has started at the local school there.

Peter has put the house in Carroll Gardens on the market and soon he and Rose and baby Grace will be moving to Connecticut. (Rose has already found a cottage with a shed in the garden for him to escape to when baby Grace is crying and Matty has friends to stay.) I have accepted his offer of half the proceeds—my pride left me, along with my dignity, in front of three million TV viewers. I am glad to be secure.

Matty will live with me during the school week and he will see Peter and Rose on the weekends. Things with him are no picnic, that's for sure, and I strongly suspect it will all be rather messy, and I hate mess because I am a Virgo, but I know it's time to embrace the random and the chaotic and the shapeless, because my attempts at overcontrol did not work. The unfortunate truth for those of us who rely on force of will and extreme organization to get through the days is that, in the end, you might be lucky, or you might be me.

I talked to Marisa the other day about it and she surprised me. Out of the blue, she said that she believes every woman who wants a career and children is carrying an unexploded bomb around with them, and while the consequences of it might not be quite as dramatic as mine, each of them will have their moment in the hurt locker. It was a bit melodramatic for my taste, but I do know what she meant.

You cannot spreadsheet your kids.

I called my parents yesterday and spoke to Mum. She was in the communal garden and I told her all my news and my plans, such as they are, and I said I wanted to bring the boys to visit whenever it suited them. I could tell that this made her happy, but she didn't embarrass either of us with any great display of overemotionalism. She said, “What about next weekend?” as if it was a completely normal occurrence. I was happy too. How else were we to do it? (Now I just have to brace myself for the sight of the dotty neighbor's bush.)

I told her I had spent the summer in Ireland and that I had brought the boys to see Grandma's house. She asked me if I had knocked on the neighbor's doors, or visited my cousins, and when I said no she seemed disappointed. I said I would be going back soon, that I had met an Irishman, and when I told her his name she said, “He sounds a bit posh,” but she laughed.

She only irritated me once. At the end of the conversation she said, “I never thought you'd be able to do this, Lydia. I never thought you'd walk away from everything you worked so hard for.”

Afterward, though, I realized she was admiring, not critical.

I have been the slave of my own life force—the restless force within me that has always had something to prove. I have kept moving, and allowing things to happen, and I have never questioned my decisions or my feelings. This is
what has made me the woman I am today. But I know there is something unfinished about me.

I said to my mother, “I'm not walking away from everything, Mum.”

She thought for a moment and then she replied.

“I see that, Lydia Mary. You are walking toward your life.”

Thank you to:

Amy Einhorn, Kate Parkin, Liz Stein, Nick Sayers, Helen Richard, and all at G. P. Putnam's Sons and Hodder & Stoughton.

Nicky Lund, Allison Hunter, Harriet Moore, Jennie Kassanoff, Dianne Festa, Katey Driscoll, Alison Jean Lester, Eimear O'Connor, and my mother, Monica Casey, who gave me particular help, encouragement, or insights at different stages of the manuscript.

My friends in Ireland, England, and the United States. My family, Casey and O'Connor. My sons, James and Marcus.

And Lizzy Kremer, David Forrer, Rosamund Lupton, and my beloved husband, Joseph O'Connor. Quite simply, without you, I would never have got to the end . . .

Anne-Marie Casey
is a novelist, screenwriter, and playwright. Her film and TV scripts have been produced in the UK and Ireland and her theatrical adaptations of
Little Women
and
Wuthering Heights
enjoyed sell-out runs at the Gate Theatre in Dublin.
No One Could Have Guessed the Weather
, her first book, was an international bestseller. She is married to the novelist Joseph O'Connor. They live in Dublin, Ireland, with their two sons.

 

annemariecasey.com

facebook.com/AnneMarieCaseyAuthor

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