13.45 lunch ongoing
14.30 Dublin Zoo
17.45 Dad makes dinner while Mum bathes children
19.00 estimated time of sleep
19.45 actual time of sleep
20.00 arrival of babysitter and exit of parents from family home for essential recovery
Sunday morning’s agenda is interrupted by urgent replacement of the bathroom window.
I stand in the bathroom and look out at the very hot workman.
‘Hel-lo. Ian, isn’t it?’
‘Mm hmm,’ he replies, balancing on the ladder, a nail in his mouth.
‘I love having workmen around the house.’
He takes the nail slowly from his mouth and smiles like a man in a Diet Coke advert.
‘Makes me feel safe,’ I add.
He starts to pull his T-shirt over his head and I worry he might fall.
‘I should go mind my children.’
‘Yes. Why don’t you do that, you dirty slut, before your husband finds you flirting with an innocent window-fixer.’
A throat clears.
Ian looks down into the next garden, smiles and gives an awkward wave. ‘Hey, Tom.’ He turns back to me and grimaces.
‘I love you,’ I whisper.
Monday, my friend, Sarah, wants to meet for lunch. Says she has news. Sarah usually does.
‘So, I’m leaving Girlfriend,’ she announces. Girlfriend is Ireland’s best-selling women’s magazine.
‘But it’s one of the best publishing jobs in the country. And you’re such a good editor.’
‘I want to write.’ She pulls on her e-cigarette like it’s oxygen.
‘You already do.’
‘Novels.’
I told her it was my dream. She said nothing at the time.
‘You know what age I am,’ she adds.
I’m one of the few that does and have been sworn to secrecy. Heading for forty, she looks ten years younger, dressing with confidence and always provocatively. It’s all done with careful deliberation. Nothing about Sarah is an accident. Even her hair matches her personality. She wants to be a redhead, so she is. If she were an animal, she would be a lion.
‘Isn’t it impossible to get published, though?’ I ask. It’s why I haven’t tried. ‘Shouldn’t you try it in your spare time first, in case it doesn’t work out?’ At least she has spare time.
‘Actually. I have been.’
‘You kept that quiet.’
She waves her hand. ‘I was just faffing about. But now I’ve lined up a publisher.’
‘How?’
‘Met an editor at a party.’
She’s unbelievable. Succeeds at everything she does. Everything.
It hits me, suddenly – if you want something to happen, you have to make it happen. You have to believe in yourself and take the leap. Yes, she’s chasing my dream. But at least, she’s doing it. And she’s making me see that it will never happen for me unless I do the same.
‘You know who you remind me of?’ I ask.
‘Who? I think!’
‘Jackie Brown, you know, from that Quentin Tarantino movie?’
She frowns. ‘Jackie Brown is black.’
‘Yeah but you have her sassiness, her sex appeal….’
‘Sex appeal, you say?’
‘I do.’
‘Must watch it again. Pick up a few tips.’
‘You don’t need tips.’
She leans in close. ‘OK, so, this is top secret but I’ve pitched another idea to my editor – and he likes it.’
‘What idea?’
‘I’m going to travel the world in search of The Perfect Man and record my exploits for a non-fiction work, while finishing the novel. What do you think?’
‘Wow.’
‘I know!’
‘When are you going?’
‘I leave next week.’
‘For how long?’ I ask, incredulously.
She shrugs. ‘As long it takes.’
‘I can’t believe you’re only telling me now.’
‘Only decided this weekend. Booked the tickets this morning.’
‘And you’ll never go back to Girlfriend?’ It was great having her in there in terms of placing articles.
‘Hope not. They’ve given me a year’s leave of absence – so that safety net is there if I want it. They know they can’t do without me.’
‘What will I do without you?’
‘Miss me?’
I think of her travelling the world alone. ‘Be careful, though, yeah? Don’t go anywhere dodgy.’
‘Where would the fun be in that? The book has to be entertaining, Kim.’
‘The book won’t exist if you’re dead.’
She smiles. ‘I’ll be fine; I’ll have you worrying for me.’
‘Yeah, that’ll really protect you.’
‘I’ll keep you posted on all my exploits. You’ll know where I am at all times.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’
She laughs deep and throaty like Jackie Brown.
After lunch, Maeve, arguably my most career-minded client, greets me with her traditional hug and air-kiss routine in the lobby of the multinational she works for. Cleopatra without the asp, Maeve sports a severe black bob, Roman features, perfect posture and zero expression – she doesn’t like to give anything away, not even her state of mind. She could be beautiful – if only she’d smile. Immaculately groomed as ever, and ten minutes late, also as ever, she walks me to her office. Marketing accolades fight for space. Nowhere is there a potted plant, photo of a loved one, postcard, funny pen…. A private eye’s worst nightmare – no hint of a life outside the office.
‘So,’ she says, once we’re seated. ‘We seem to have achieved reasonable coverage.’
She’s referring to the press conference. And she’s wrong. We got tremendous coverage. But this is Maeve Boland whose chosen method of motivation is the withdrawal of praise. The technique is this: make everyone work harder in case, one day, she might actually bestow a ‘well done’ upon them.
‘I was pleased with it, especially considering the murder,’ I say.
‘Hmm. We didn’t get on the Morning Show, like last year.’
‘That’s the point; we got on it last year so they didn’t want to go again so soon.’
‘Hmm. Anything we could have done better?’
I remind myself that I don’t need this business. I can walk away at any time. ‘Don’t think so, no.’
‘No room for improvement at all?’
She could improve her attitude. But I don’t point that out.
‘Right. Well.’ She passes me an agenda, then looks down at her own copy. Opposite the heading, ‘Press Conference’, she places a neat tick. She lands the tip of her Mont Blanc on the second bullet point and looks up. ‘Let’s talk about a PR strategy for the rest of the year.’
Let’s not, I think. ‘Do you have a written brief?’
‘Well, I thought we could discuss it now.’
That would be right – on my time.
I force a smile. ‘So. Are we targeting the same audience as usual?’
‘Latest research suggests we’re on target. No reason to change.’
I nod. ‘Could I have a copy of that research? It would help in developing a strategy. How about the product messages? Any reason to change those?’
‘Again, they seem to be impacting the target market. Brand awareness is ninety-five per cent. Of course, advertising is responsible for most of that.’
No doubt she’s saying the reverse to the ad guys. I control an urge to sigh, yawn, stretch, walk around her office, jump up on her desk and dance. I am heroic.
‘So,’ I say. ‘The only reason to change anything, then, would be competitor activity. Anything I should know?’
‘Nothing significant. I’ll e-mail you what I have.’
‘Great. Budget the same? Or are you increasing it?’ My own private joke, just to cheer myself up. I know the answer.
‘No. No incr
ease.’
‘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 B
ottles (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?’
All We Have Lost Page 2
