All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  He hangs up.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ he asks, smiling.

  ‘You, Ian.’

  ‘Me, Tarzan.’

  ‘You Ian – as opposed to You Dad or You Husband.’

  ‘And yet I do have quite a number of Tarzan-like features,’ he says swishing back imaginary long hair.

  ‘No loincloth, though.’

  ‘That could be arranged. Come on, Jane, let’s go.’

  ‘I’ll just grab my vine.’

  We walk in sync towards the airport terminal. I bump him with my shoulder. He bumps me back and I go flying. We laugh and he holds out his hand. Taking it, I tell myself that I shouldn’t worry so much about the writing. I have Ian. I shouldn’t forget that. I can lean on him, a little. He won’t mind; he might even like it.

  About an hour into our flight, Ian gives me a corny smile. He takes my hand and begins to, what can only be described as, ‘fondle’ it. Then he starts to serenade me. Out loud. On a full – and very big – plane.

  ‘Every time you go away,’ he sings, earnest and cheesy. ‘You take a piece a me with you…’

  I’m laughing when an airhostess arrives with a Financial Times for the crooner. He doesn’t drop my hand or look awkward, just beams up a very charming thank you.

  She looks at him as if to say, ‘You can serenade me any time.’ Then walks off.

  ‘She remembered,’ he says, touching his heart.

  ‘Either that or people were begging her to do something – anything – to stop the “singing”.’

  He gives me one of his earphones so that we’re still together while he reads the paper. I reopen my book. The sun catches the diamonds on my engagement ring and I make the three little dots dance on the clipped-up tray in front. I fold away the armrest and slip my legs over one of Ian’s. Cosy.

  Thirty-three is probably old to join the Mile High Club. (Boy, those loos are small.) And it’s probably not cool to become a member with a spouse. But, getting off the plane, we’re one condom down. And grinning.

  The wedding is a cosy affair. Bride and groom look like they’ve leapt from the last page of a fairytale. Mum looks fabulous, dressed in a beige suit, elegant in its simplicity. Her wide-brimmed hat is the definition of understatement, her only flamboyance being a few more pearls than usual.

  I stand up too early to deliver my reading and have to sit back down again. When I do step in front of the microphone (and entire congregation) I trip over words like firmament – mostly because I swore I would.

  Relieved it’s over, I return to my seat beside Mum. When the you-may-kiss-the-bride moment comes, she holds my hand.

  ‘He’d be so proud,’ she whispers.

  These are the worst moments, the ones that Dad would have hated to miss. I put my arm around her. I hate that he is missing this, but decide to be grateful, at least, that he was there for the happiest day of my life. He never did get to meet his grandchildren; didn’t even know they were coming. I learnt I was pregnant with Chloe the day after he died. He would have liked to go out on a positive. At least, though, we had something to focus on, look forward to, live for – especially Mum who was thrilled to be chosen as Chloe’s godmother.

  The day flies. But we have Sunday. And that’s all it takes to regress to the pre-parental stage – chatting, laughing, messing, walking, kissing, touching. Lots of touching. We do leave the room – to eat. New York’s sights are kept for another time.

  I wonder how we can hold on to this holiday-romance feeling when we get home. More time together, out of the house, on our own. Meeting in town after work. Stolen afternoons in the penthouse of the Clarence Hotel. They’ve got a hot tub. There is the issue of money and the fact that I’m not making any. And Ian’s not yet permanent. Only one thing for it: I have to make this novel work. I have to make a living.

  On Monday, we say goodbye to Mum who is staying on for a few days with her new in-laws. I hug James, then Rachel, but can’t leave without a warning:

  ‘Don’t rush into anything.’

  ‘What? Kids?’ James asks.

  I nod. ‘Give it five years.’

  They laugh.

  ‘Kim, we’ve been together seven already,’ says Rachel. Her eyes give her away. I used to be like that, thinking, ‘we won’t let children change our lives’ and ‘we won’t call each other Mum and Dad’ and the big one, ‘we’ll do it differently’.

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk like that about the kids,’ Ian says in the taxi to the airport. ‘It sounds like you’re sorry we had them.’

  ‘You know that’s not what I was saying.’

  ‘What, that you love them but if you were to do it again you wouldn’t have had them?’

  ‘No. Just that they shouldn’t rush into it. They should have some fun first. That’s all.’

  ‘What if Rachel is already pregnant?’

  Oh crap. ‘You don’t think she is, do you?’

  He shakes his head.

  My mind starts to race. ‘God, I hope they can have kids.’

  ‘I’m sure they can. Stop worrying.’

  ‘A person doesn’t stop worrying just because another person tells them to.’

  He kisses me. ‘Try.’

  ‘I am glad we had kids. You know that, don’t you?’

  He smiles and kisses me again. ‘Course I do.’

  At JFK, while Ian sits with a copy of Fortune, I track down presents for Sam and Chloe.

  ‘You think you’ve got enough?’ he asks when he sees all the bags.

  ‘There was just so much good stuff.’ And, OK, a bit of guilt.

  Smiling, he shakes his head.

  Walking to the car in Dublin, we’re holding hands. Though I’m dying to see Sam and Chloe, I can’t help thinking about the trade off – bye, bye intimacy. That’s when I decide that it doesn’t have to be like that. I just need to take control.

  As Ian drives, I take out the notebook he bought me for my writing. I start to make a list.

  New Me Resolutions:

  1. Get organised – make lists.

  2. Get fit – bum firmer, tummy tighter and hips, well, smaller.

  3. Shoulders back, chest out, tummy in. Remember, posture is camouflage.

  4. Get romance (i.e. sex) back on track. Work on strategy.

  5. Ignore all bad behaviour – I will, I will, I will.

  6. Reward good – especially my own.

  7. Arrange more time for self – be firm.

  8. Have fun.

  9. Chuck self-help books.

  10. Think before opening mouth.

  This will be the new me. I promise.

  CHAPTER NINE

  On Sarah’s advice, I send my – edited – first three chapters of what I’m now calling Peripheral Fear to her literary agent, Tessa Browne. Weeks pass. Slowly. After six, as advised, I call her.

  She gets to the point.

  ‘The writing is patchy. Some bits are good,’ she says cheerfully, ‘some not so.’

  I don’t ask for the ratio. Her comment on the plot helps me out though:

  ‘It’s been done to death.’

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach plummets like mercury in a thermometer.

  ‘Writers have to put in a lot of hard work. It’s a very difficult life.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Advances have fallen sharply. It’s not a good time to be starting out.’

  Somehow, I don’t think she said that to Sarah.

  ‘If I were you, I’d stick to the PR. Much more lucrative.’

  I hold it together till I hang up.

  Then – with disastrous timing – Sarah rings.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks. ‘Tessa just called to say you guys had spoken.’ There’s a pause. ‘She can be a bit… abrupt.’

  I’m mortified, wondering what she said to Sarah about what I’ve written.

  ‘Don’t let her stop you. That would be a mistake.’

  ‘Maybe she has a point. Maybe I’m just not good enough.’

  ‘Why
don’t you open with a sex scene? Get people right into the story.’

  I close my eyes. And breathe.

  ‘Books sell on the first chapter, Kim. A good sex scene and you have them. Guaranteed.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Actually, why don’t you write erotica?’

  Silence while I struggle not to outright bawl.

  ‘I’ll write it for you if you like.’

  ‘It’s OK, thanks. How’s Australia?’

  ‘New Zealand now, mate,’ she says in a Kiwi accent. ‘And I’ve met him – Perfect Man!’

  ‘Really? So soon? Wow! Who is he?’

  ‘Maori. The real thing. Staying power of an ox.’

  I laugh. ‘So that’s the end of the book, then?’

  ‘God, no. Why would it be?’

  ‘Well, you found him. What’s there to write about?’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be the last chapter. I’ll have to continue my research for the middle of the book.’

  ‘Right.’ A pause. ‘Won’t he mind?’

  ‘He won’t know.’

  ‘Until the book comes out.’

  ‘I’ll deal with tomorrow tomorrow. How’s that sexy husband of yours?’

  Scary when she talks about Ian in those terms. ‘Grand.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Yeah, fine.’

  ‘Give everyone my love.’

  ‘OK. And Sarah? Thanks, you know, for the introduction. Hope I didn’t waste her time.’

  ‘Least she could do. I’m making her a fortune. OK, gotta go. There’s a man, here, that needs my attention. Ciao, hon.’

  ‘Bye, Sarah.’

  I need to lie down.

  The kids are off today so I’m up at six, researching erotica. I’m wondering if I have it in me when I hear whispering and light footsteps on the stairs. I click out of full-on steam.

  I go to the door and watch them toddling downstairs in their PJs. They are holding hands.

  ‘Shh,’ Chloe says.

  Sam puts a finger up to his mouth.

  Ah, God.

  ‘Good boy,’ she says, like she’s the mum.

  Into the kitchen they pad, partners in crime. Chloe climbs up on a chair to open the fridge. Sam places his order. She starts to pass it down to him. A yoghurt. A tomato. Cheese. Healthy, I’ll give him that.

  I reverse into a corner of darkness as they bring their picnic into the sitting room. They turn on the TV and flick through the channels until they find cartoons. It doesn’t matter to them that the voices are in Irish, a language they haven’t yet learned. God, I love kids. Not just my own.

  I open the laptop. And a completely new file. The mouse blinks at me, expectantly.

  Right.

  I’ll have a stab at a sex scene. Can always delete it.

  I start out OK but when I get to the actual act, mortification hits. I am confounded by terminology, uncomfortable with words like ‘throbbing member’ and ‘dewy mound.’ There are children in the room! Even if there weren’t, I’d have the same problem – because the general idea is for people to read this.

  I hear Ian getting up. I scan what I’ve written. And blush. It’s a biology lesson.

  I’ve wasted an hour!

  I delete every embarrassing word and am faced, once again, with a blank screen.

  Maybe I should open with a murder. Something shocking. Unusual.

  I press my fingertips into my temples. I crane my neck. Yawn.

  I hear the pump come on for the shower upstairs. Desperation rises. I can’t think.

  My tummy rumbles. I long for toast.

  Then, suddenly, I have it! Electrocution!

  My fingers take off over the keyboard. All around me fades.

  ‘Oh. They’re watching television,’ Ian says, like they’re slitting their wrists.

  I take him in, all dressed up and somewhere to go. This is how I must have looked to Sally – the over-compensating parent. How easy it is to be right when all you have to do is give instructions and walk out. Not so long ago, I saw television as an unnecessary evil. Now I know it’s a necessary one. The day is long. Start with a hive of activity and you run into trouble of the cranky-tired variety. Ian doesn’t know that. He’s still the working parent. Explain to him, Kim; it’s part of your job description now.

  ‘Ian, they’re having such fun. They got up by themselves, sneaked down and helped themselves to food. They’re getting on so well because this is their little secret. But here I am, sitting in the corner, keeping an eye.’ I see him soften, so finish off with, ‘Don’t worry. I have it timed. One hour. That’s it.’ I don’t say, ‘Now off you go, your conscience is clear,’ but that doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it.

  And as I watch him leave, it hits me that this is not the first time since I quit work that he has tried to tell me how to parent. My heart flutters. He is not in charge. We are still a team. Equal.

  As the car pulls out of the drive, the hunt begins for my notebook, specifically my list of new me resolutions. This is suddenly important.

  After a desperate hunt, I find the notebook behind the couch with a crayon. My list – and most of the notebook – is covered in green scribbles, Sam’s favourite colour. I run my finger under each line of my list. What can I do that’s immediate?

  No. 3. Posture.

  I straighten up, shove my shoulders back and raise my chin.

  No. 9. Chuck self-help books.

  Not sure I can do that. It would be like throwing away my safety net. Plus, they were expensive.

  But I am determined.

  I round them up. It takes a while.

  Throwing them out would be sacrilege. I’ll trade them for some crime novels in our local second hand bookshop. Then I’ll bring the kids for a walk on the pier. That’s three resolutions in one day. Go me.

  I arrive at the bookshop with a carrier bag of advice on how to live a happy, adjusted, rewarding, positive, sex-filled, fun, tantrum-free life. And wait for the man behind the counter to finish with another customer.

  ‘Guys, stay here.’ What is so fascinating about the door? ‘Hey, look, children’s books over there. Have a look.’

  It works.

  I have the man’s attention now. He pulls book after book from the bag, doing a quick tot. After about the seventh how-to guide, he sneaks a look at me. His expression gives nothing away. Do I look desperate or cured?

  ‘I’m perfect now,’ I laugh awkwardly.

  He doesn’t react, just goes back to the job at hand. Why did I bring them all in together? Twenty-two self-help books; I could have set up in competition with him. He continues to dip in and pull out. I turn to check that Sam and Chloe are not dismantling his shop. The guy behind me in the lengthening queue looks away when I catch him staring at my books. I look at his. Oh, Atonement. Right.

  I notice that all my good posture from earlier has gone. I feel a sudden need for books that are no longer in my possession – not badly enough to have to ask for them back, though. I leave the shop with two brand new children’s books, which have used up most of my credit. I take a deep breath. To the pier, my lovelies!

  Fresh air. Ah yes. This was a good idea. People pass by, mostly women, some strolling, others powering along. Many are in pairs, chatting animatedly. I long suddenly for an adult conversation. For a friend. Sarah seemed more than enough when my schedule was tight. I could ring Liz, a journalist I used to meet for lunch occasionally. But spending more time with the children has made me realise: I don’t have a lot in common with Liz. Not really. What I need is a new friend. Someone in my position. What am I talking about? I have two thousand words a day to write. I know; we’ll go see Mum.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mum takes a home-made quiche from the oven and I think it must be true that the smell of baking sells homes – I instantly want to move in. Chloe, carrying salt to the table, decides to tip it into her mouth. Sam looks at his sister and reaches for the sugar. I take the salt from Chloe and move the sugar out of reach.

>   The arrival of food makes things easier.

  The quiche is so good it silences us.

  Until finally, Chloe says: ‘I’m full.’

  I look at her plate. ‘Just two more spoons, then bring your plate to the sink and you can go outside.’

  ‘OK, Mum.’

  ‘I full too,’ says Sam on hearing the word ‘outside’.

  ‘Let me feed you for a sec, then you can go out with Chloe, OK?’ Never have my days required such a level of negotiation.

  Out onto the patio they troop and into the sandpit Mum has bought to entertain them when they’re here. We watch through the open patio doors.

  ‘How are things?’ Mum asks.

  ‘OK. Not as easy as I thought they’d be.’

  ‘It’s a big change. You need time to adjust.’

  ‘It’s just that I thought that the writing would be easier. I just can’t seem to make any progress.’

  ‘Maybe you need a break.’

  ‘I took one yesterday to paint Sam’s room. While I was doing it I actually seemed to get some good ideas. So I abandoned the painting, went to the laptop and typed like crazy. Then the Montessori rang to tell me I’d forgotten to pick up the kids. I forgot my own children. Sally would never have done that.’

  ‘Sally wasn’t writing a novel. At least you got some ideas for the book.’

  I shake my head. ‘When I got back to the computer, I realised that what I’d written was complete rubbish.’

  ‘Some of it must have been good.’

  ‘No. None. The paint must have made me high. It was off-the-wall.’

  She smiles. ‘How’s the room?’

  ‘Sam loves it.’

  ‘There you go. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a great Mum.’

  I half smile.

  ‘Why don’t you take a break from the writing for a while? Maybe you’ve got…what’s it called…writer’s block?’

  ‘Or maybe I’m just crap.’

  ‘Well, you’re not going to make any progress feeling like that. Take the summer off. Allow yourself time to adjust to the changes you’ve made to your life. You’ve just given up running a business because you couldn’t do it all. Now you’re replacing the business with a novel while still bringing up a young family and keeping a home. Ease into it, love. Soon they’ll be getting holidays. Why don’t you stop now and wait till they go back in September to start again. You’ll be in a better frame of mind.’