Time Out

by Emma Murray

  She looks like a bird, I decide. Like a very fragile, anxious peacock.

  When I reach the table, she claps her hands excitedly and says, ‘Ooooh!’

  I’m not sure what to do with this so I just smile and say, ‘Hello.’

  ‘Sit down, sit down,’ she says, gesturing her hand wildly towards the opposite chair to her.

  Just as I sit down, she jumps back up immediately, startling me a little.

  ‘Coffee! I’ll get you a coffee!’ she says, and before I can stop her, she is waving over the waiter and putting in an order.

  I thank her, and she sits back down.

  ‘So, how are you?’ I say.

  ‘Ooooh, I’m all right,’ she says again, resting her hand under her chin.

  I ask her about the terrorist attack, and she tells me that nobody she knows has been hurt.

  Our coffees arrive and we sip in awkward silence for a bit.

  ‘So, I see you have three boys,’ I say.

  ‘Ooooh, yes,’ she says, sighing. And then the floodgates open: how she has been really struggling since number three came along, how her husband is away all the time, how her nanny dumped her by text… basically a summary of everything she has posted already on Vale Mums.

  When she has finished, she peers at me through her big glasses and says, ‘Ooooh, I’m sorry. You don’t even know me and here I am going on and on about myself. I mean, I love my kids but—’

  And that’s when I cut her off.

  ‘Please don’t feel you have to justify your love for your children, Rosalind,’ I tell her firmly. ‘We all love our children, but let’s face it, they are bloody hard work at times.’

  She nods and her shoulders slump. When she raises her head again, her eyes are watery.

  ‘I mean the first two boys, Ben and Ethan, are a handful, but the two-year-old, Jacob, is a real challenge,’ she says, shifting a little in her chair, a flush beginning to grow on her cheeks.

  Jesus, if it’s one word I can’t cope with it’s ‘challenge’. I take a deep breath and ask her gently to think of a better word than ‘challenge’ to describe her difficult toddler.

  She looks a bit nonplussed for a moment, before tentatively suggesting, ‘Little monkey?’

  Not quite what I had in mind.

  ‘How about little shitbag?’ I say.

  She laughs as though for the first time and, as if surprised by the sound, stifles it by covering her mouth guiltily.

  ‘Ooooh, I couldn’t call him that,’ she says, but she is smiling all the same.

  ‘Have a think,’ I say, feeling more encouraged.

  She brushes a stray curl behind her ear, and says, ‘I suppose if I really had to think of the most accurate word to describe him, I would say he is a little cock.’

  This time it’s my turn to be surprised. I wasn’t sure she had it in her.

  After that, we have a joyous time trying to outdo each other with our war stories about tantruming toddlers.

  Rosalind: ‘The worst was when I lost sight of Jacob when I was dropping Ben off at school, only to find him firmly planted with all the other kids on the big rug in the classroom. I had to drag him out of there kicking and screaming in front of Ben’s teacher, who looked extremely unimpressed.’

  And me: ‘That’s nothing. Once, I had to crawl under a whole row of cinema seats to retrieve a “special stone” that Anna had dropped by accident. It was the only way I could get her to stop screaming.’

  Once our supply of terrible tales has been exhausted, I move on to the topic of Vale Mums. I am curious to see why she feels compelled to post, especially considering the hammering she gets from the Organics.

  ‘Since I had kids, and with my husband away, I really don’t have time to socialise. I’m an only child, and my mum died ten years ago… I guess I post on Vale Mums for company,’ she says, twisting her hands.

  ‘And what makes you think Vale Mums have all the answers?’ I say, trying to withhold my rant about the Organics and how hideous they are.

  ‘I don’t,’ she says. ‘But sometimes it’s nice when people care enough to reply to my posts.’

  Even though what some of them do say knocks your confidence as a parent, I add silently. She takes a sip of her coffee, almost shrinking into herself. I honestly think she is one of the loneliest people I have ever met, and I immediately feel guilty that I have judged her for posting so prolifically on Vale Mums, when all she really needed was a good friend.

  Suddenly, Rosalind glances at her watch and stands up abruptly.

  ‘Ooooh, look at the time! I have to go and pick up the boys from sports camp!’

  She pays the bill and we head out into the hot sun. As we say goodbye, I tell her I will be in touch again with some more days and times for coffee, and I really mean it. She says, ‘Ooooh, lovely,’ before she goes, legs and arms flailing as she runs. As I’m walking home, I think about how kids bring people together: people you may not have immediately bonded with prior to having kids. Not to be mean, but if I had met Rosalind at work, I probably would have dismissed her for being a little kooky. Just before I reach my street, my phone beeps and flashes. It’s a text from Bea. She says that she’s glad David isn’t dead and wants to know if I can come around for a cup of tea and a chat. I would love nothing better than a catch-up with Bea so I text David to let him know that I’m heading to her house and won’t be long. I add a few kisses without any sense of duty or obligation and feel happier than I’ve felt for a long time. I decide that tonight, after Anna goes to sleep, I am going to make a pass at my husband and at the very least put on matching bra and knickers.

  As I knock on Bea’s front door, I already have a smile on my face. I can’t wait to fill her in on everything’s that’s been happening with David and me, and his supposed affair and all the gossip from Ireland (well, almost everything – I’m keeping the Ryan stuff to myself), and about my coffee with Rosalind. I hear the key turn in the lock, and the door suddenly opens and I wave my hand in greeting and stop halfway because it’s not Bea.

  It’s Ryan.

  My mouth drops open to match his. It can’t be him. It can’t be. I am frozen just the way I was on the beach when we first met. We lock eyes, and the air fizzes with electricity.

  Then suddenly Bea is there, nudging Ryan out of the way so she can give me a hug while I look at Ryan over her shoulder and blink a couple of times, because he cannot be here.

  Bea draws away, and looks at me with puzzled eyes. Then she slowly looks from me to Ryan and back again.

  I hold my breath in my throat.

  Ryan is the first to move. He steps forward with his hand out, grips mine firmly, and says, ‘Nice to meet you.’

  It takes me a moment to digest what he is doing. He is pretending we are strangers. Why? However, I have no choice but to follow his lead. His touch shoots a little bolt of electricity through me, which I try to pretend isn’t sexual, and I squeeze his hand just as firmly in return, find my voice and tell him it’s nice to meet him too.

  Bea shakes her head slowly.

  ‘Honestly, it’s like you two are in some kind of executive meeting,’ she says. She gives herself a little shake and says grandly, ‘Saoirse, meet Ryan, the father of my child.’

  What the FUCK?

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there, come in!’ she says, as if she hasn’t just dropped the world’s biggest bombshell.

  My mind is reeling. How the hell could this be? Ryan is Bea’s ex – Harry’s father. My mouth feels dry and my legs feel heavy as I walk down the narrow hallway to Bea’s kitchen. I am flooded with relief when I see Ryan’s back retreating up the tiny stairs to Harry, who is waiting at the top with what looks to be some kind of plastic gun.

  Bea fills the kettle with water while I flop into one of the least-stained kitchen chairs. While the kettle is boiling, Bea joins me at the table and we both start talking at the same time. She asking me about David and I ask about Ryan.

  She holds up her customary one fin
ger, and we both fall silent.

  ‘You first,’ she smiles.

  My head is still spinning from seeing Ryan but I manage to talk about David instead. I put a half-coherent story together and tell Bea what happened as best I can. I tell her about Joss and how she’s been helping David find his biological mother, and she crosses her arms and looks thoughtful for a moment.

  ‘It makes sense that David would want to find his mother eventually,’ she says. ‘It might help him feel more grounded.’

  I nod, once again appreciating her insight on how David’s mind works.

  ‘You look pale,’ she says, getting up to make the tea. ‘You’re probably still in shock.’

  I am in shock, I think, but not about David.

  ‘So, what about you?’ I say, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible. ‘How did Ryan end up here?’

  Bea grimaces a little, and crosses the kitchen in two long strides to the fridge.

  ‘It’s all a bit strange,’ she says, looking at the milk in her hand as if wondering how it got there. It’s the first time I have ever seen her composure slip.

  I get up from the chair, quickly grab the milk from her, and balancing two teacups in one hand, guide her over to the kitchen table. I bring the kettle over and pour in some hot water, while she looks at her hands for a bit.

  ‘I’m not sure where to start, Saoirse,’ she says.

  So I tell her to start from the beginning, which she does.

  Bea tells me the whole story of why they split up five years before. How Arianna had paid for the trip to Ireland to get Bea to scout out a particular plot just outside Wexford as a potential location for a summer house, which of course would end up becoming The Cube.

  ‘We were having such a lovely time,’ Bea said, with a sigh. ‘The plot was perfect, so we didn’t have much to do apart from laze around the hotel and take walks along the beach. Although the weather was pretty shit.’

  Well, obviously.

  ‘We met Kitty and Frank at the beach and they persuaded Ryan to take a dip in the sea. I was too pregnant at the time, but Ryan really took to it. Every morning, he would get up early and go for a swim – or so I thought.’

  I nod along, mainly because I know most of it, although she doesn’t know that. But I didn’t know all of it, because for all his guilt and repentance, Ryan never told me that his long-term girlfriend had been six months’ pregnant with his baby when he cheated on her with Frances.

  ‘I mean I had no idea he was fucking someone else. It just didn’t register at all. I feel so stupid now, looking back,’ she says, sipping her tea. ‘Anyway, back in London, when he finally told me about Frances, I knew that was it for us. It’s horrific what happened to her but I couldn’t bring myself to feel sorry for him. So I cut him out of my life completely.’

  I stay quiet for a bit so it looks like I’m trying to process what should be new information but inwardly I’m livid. How could Ryan not tell me that he had cheated on his girlfriend while she was pregnant? The total scumbag.

  ‘So you can imagine my surprise when he rocked up at my office – apparently he Googled me – demanding to see Harry and wanting to know if he was safe.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘Well, naturally I told him to fuck off,’ she says casually, dipping half a digestive in her tea. ‘And then he sits down on the chair opposite and spends a good half an hour telling me how sorry he is about everything, and how the terrorist attack made him realise what he’d lost and that he’d never forgive himself if he didn’t at least try to see Harry,’ she says.

  ‘And what did you say to all that?’

  ‘Well, I’ll admit that it made me think. There may be nothing between Ryan and me any more, but perhaps Harry does deserve to see his father.’

  ‘Wow,’ is the best I can come up with.

  ‘The whole area was being evacuated as a precaution anyway, so we just hopped in a taxi and came back here.’

  ‘So, what did Harry think?’ I say.

  ‘This is the best part, Saoirse,’ she says. ‘I let us both into the house and Harry comes tearing down the stairs, and he’s all delighted that I’m home unexpectedly. Then he comes to this sliding stop in the hallway when he sees Ryan.’

  ‘Go on!’ I say, because, despite it all, I’m a sucker for reunion stories.

  ‘So he clocks Ryan and goes, “Who’s that bloke?”’ she says, laughing.

  I laugh with her because Harry is fucking hilarious at the best of times.

  ‘I tell him that his name is Ryan, and he just gives him this long stare, and he says, “But he looks just like me,” and then Ryan kneels down and explains who he is.’

  ‘Jesus,’ I say, because I can’t think of any other way to react. ‘What was Harry’s reaction?’

  ‘Well, I think it’s fair to say that Harry didn’t exactly appreciate the gravity of the situation. He kicked Ryan in his left knee, and ran off to find Maria and Anna.’

  ‘It’s a lot for Harry to take in,’ I say.

  ‘I know. They’re getting on better today, but it’s a long road, for Harry and for me,’ she says, thoughtfully. ‘Anyway, after that Ryan and I went out to dinner. Thankfully Maria agreed to stay a bit later. Unsurprisingly, Ryan wants access to Harry, so I need to think more about that. Maybe we can keep things civil and work something out.’

  Then I ask her the question that’s been sticking in my throat this entire time.

  ‘Are you getting back with Ryan?’ I say, busying myself by clearing away the empty cups so she can’t see my expression.

  ‘Gosh, no!’ she says. ‘I may have shagged him last night for old time’s sake – more convenient than Tinder – but there is no way I would ever get back with that ratbag. But sex is sex, and he was there, so…’

  Then her forehead creases.

  ‘Besides, his American accent is killing me. He’s from South Africa for goodness’ sake!’

  Despite myself, I feel a twinge of jealousy. That just last night my Ryan fantasy had become my best friend’s reality. I shake off these ridiculous thoughts, reminding myself that he is a lying, cheating scumbag, and do my best to focus on what Bea is saying.

  She looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘Besides, Maria would murder me.’

  And it suddenly twigs that this must have been the visitor Maria was telling me about yesterday.

  ‘Does Maria not like Ryan?’ I say.

  ‘She knows the history so, she was never going to welcome him with open arms. Besides, she reckons his eyes are a bit close together, or some nonsense,’ Bea says.

  ‘How long is he staying for?’ I say, because if this is only a flying visit, I think I can just about handle it.

  ‘I told him he needs to leave later today, and find a hotel or something. He mentioned something about moving to be closer to Harry, but who knows, Saoirse? He’s hardly Mr Reliable.’

  I think about what it would be like to bump into Ryan on the street and my stomach lurches. To my frustration, I realise I’m not sure it would be such a bad feeling.

  Bea suddenly gives an impatient wave to indicate that she wants to change the subject. ‘Anyway, enough about me and the ex! What are your thoughts on the whole school situation?’

  Despite everything that has happened, I take a small measure of comfort in the knowledge that Bea and I are in exactly the same boat when it comes to bloody schools. Both lumbered with the shit school unless we dig deep for private-school fees.

  ‘Sure, we’re fucked, Bea. Can’t afford private, and David refuses to send Anna to the shit school, even temporarily,’ I say, and sit back and sigh.

  ‘You never know, Saoirse. I see from Vale Mums that some kids on the waiting list have been getting places at Woodvale. That might happen for Anna too,’ she says.

  ‘Ha! I doubt it,’ I say. ‘She’s too far down the waiting list. It’ll be probably another year before she gets in and by that stage, she’ll be in a juvenile detention centre.’

  Bea
doesn’t smile. Instead she looks down at her hands and taps her fingers on the table. She takes a deep breath, hesitates, releases it, and takes another deep breath. Her expression is grim.

  ‘What the fuck, Bea? Spit it out!’ I say.

  ‘So, I’m sending Harry private,’ she says, in the same voice I imagine she would use if she had been diagnosed with cancer.

  What?

  ‘My mother is paying for it,’ she says.

  I know I should be happy for Bea. There are some lovely private schools in the area – apart from St Enda’s, which is frankly insufferable. But Bea would never send Harry there. The news makes me sad. Our kids won’t be going to school together. We won’t be able to stand in the playground and slag off all the other mums. I’ll be all by myself. The new girl at the school gates. I hate being the new girl.

  ‘What school is it?’ I say.

  ‘St Enda’s,’ she says, and her hands fly to her glasses, which she adjusts for no discernible reason.

  Any chance of being happy for her goes straight out the window.

  ‘St Enda’s?’ I echo. ‘The school where all the kids wear boater hats, and hold galas and fundraisers for hippos over actual starving humans? The school we’ve been taking the piss out of for the last two years? Are you fucking kidding me?’

  I feel my whole body clench. How could she be such a hypocrite? St Enda’s is the Organics’ school of choice, which tells you all you need to know. It’s elitist, snobbish, ultra-competitive, zero diversity; it’s a school that hammers small children academically, assaults them with too many extra-curriculars and hours of homework, and then moulds them into little toy soldiers.

  She heaves a big sigh and shrugs her shoulders. ‘I know, Saoirse. I’ve been battling my mum over it for the last year, but she wore me down,’ she says. ‘Then when he got a place at the shit school, I thought maybe I should take her up on her offer. Besides, a good old-fashioned dose of English discipline might turn him into a functioning member of society.’

  I can see by the line of her mouth that her mind is made up and I cry inside because I don’t want to do this without her. We have been inseparable since we met on that shagging bus four years ago. I had just assumed our kids would go to the same school. Whatever has happened (or not happened with Ryan), I can’t face the thought of losing my best friend. To St Enda’s of all places.