by Lyn Hamilton
I looked at the two of them, Clive his usual rakish self, although somehow apprehensive, Moira looking quite uncharacteristically diffident. I looked down at my coffee cup, watching as a small pool of frothed milk expanded across my saucer from the spoon, and for a moment or two my life with Clive, the good times and the bad, flashed before my eyes. For some reason, I also thought of Charles, and a long, sad tale of inappropriate love, and I could feel myself getting angry all over again, whether at them or myself I didn’t know.
Then I thought of all the laughs I’d shared with Moira, the late night conversations, the support we’d given each other through the tough times in retail and in life. I remembered when we’d had our impacted wisdom teeth out at the same time, then taken a limo back to my place, where, curled up in blankets and flannel nightgowns purchased for the occasion, we sat up most of the night by a roaring fire, sharing a very fine bottle of scotch through clenched teeth, as our faces swelled. And I remembered being told that Moira, when she heard I’d been shot, had grabbed her handbag and passport, called Clive, then driven directly to the airport without so much as a toothbrush, calling her travel agent from the car and demanding to be put on the first flight headed in the general direction of Ireland. When I looked up, Moira had a expression on her face that was part hope, part pleading.
“You could think about it for a while,” Clive said.
“No, I don’t have to. It’s a good idea,” I said.
Clive was angling to call our new shop Swain & McClintoch rather than its original name, which pre-dates our divorce. His second ex-wife Celeste was not too inclined to advance him any cash, however, and my dear friend Moira wisely stayed out of it. Under the circumstances, the bank was keener on my signature than his, so McClintoch & Swain it is. We opened with a very splashy party to which we invited everyone we could think of, and where champagne—real champagne—flowed copiously. I would not normally throw such an extravagant party: I mean, we’re still paying for it months later. But who cares? Under the circumstances, I felt I was celebrating my new life, not just the new store. I’ve learned many things in the last few months, not the least of which is that life is a precious, and fragile, gift.
As unconventional as it may be to work in partnership with your ex-spouse, it’s going okay. Irish Georgian is doing reasonably well for us. Just as I hoped he would, Clive mixes the paint and does a sketch of the room, complete with color swatches; I, with Eithne Byrne as our part-time agent and picker in Ireland, get the furniture. Whatever we need, Eithne finds. She’s working out really well, and having a good time of it, I believe. I expect she’ll open her own shop in Ireland soon enough, once Byrne Enterprises is on more solid footing, but I think, I hope, our relationship will continue.
And if Irish Georgian doesn’t work for you, name your place. We’ll see you get the complete look, furniture, furnishings, plants, lighting, window and wall treatments, whatever it takes. So far, we’ve done the Mediterranean, Tuscany, Mexico, Bali, and beyond. There’s a whole world out there, and before I waft off again into that great silver screen in the sky, I plan to see it all.
