All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  ‘As long as they’re not people.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A joke, honey. A joke.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘She fancies you, you know.’

  ‘Who? Melanie? Does she?’ Altar boy innocence.

  ‘You know she does.’

  ‘OK so maybe she has a little crush. It’s harmless. Anyway, you know how I am with other women.’

  And that’s why I never worry. I’ve always thought him overcautious, keeping a professional distance from the various child minders and babysitters we’ve had. Now I’m reassured. When I think about it, he hadn’t been encouraging Melanie. He hadn’t even been looking at her. He could have shaken her off though; he hates people clinging to him. But maybe she’s good for his image – a pretty, attentive secretary, hanging on his every word. Where would a pirate be without his parrot, a soldier without his stripes, a corporate financier without his secretary?

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I haven’t been spending more time at home. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.’

  ‘The kids’ summer concert is coming up,’ I say hopefully.

  He grimaces. ‘When?’

  ‘Last Friday in June.’

  He makes a face. ‘I won’t make it, hon.’

  Suddenly I’m close to tears. For once, he seems to notice. He takes me in his arms, something he hasn’t done in ages. But something’s different. It’s like he’s appeasing a child.

  Connor calls and my smile is automatic.

  ‘There’s a man over here pining for Ireland. Come and save him.’

  ‘Pining as in: not eating, not sleeping, not functioning pining?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Aren’t there any nice London girls to cheer him up?’

  ‘Only you will do. He’s just not the same without you. He looked so happy leaving the art gallery…’

  ‘Who looked so happy leaving the art gallery?’

  ‘Modigliani man.’

  ‘Connor, are you trying to tell me that a piece of stone wants me in London?’

  ‘Well, I could also do with some serious slagging.’

  ‘How about some telephone slagging?’

  ‘Not the same. Sorry.’

  ‘Not sure how I can help then; I can’t come over with the entire posse.’

  ‘Course you can.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be able to give you my full slagging attention.’

  ‘That might not be a bad thing. Come on, Kim. It’d be great to see you all. I’m so bored.’

  ‘How’s the job?’

  ‘Job’s actually good. Challenging. And I’ve found an amazing apartment. Loads of room. Could fit a family.’

  I smile. ‘You’re not going to give up, are you?’

  ‘Great art galleries over here.’

  I sigh.

  ‘And parks for the kids. And restaurants.’

  Maybe I should stop fighting this. ‘Let me see how much the flights cost. No promises.’

  ‘Excellent!’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Sarah calls from New York City.

  ‘The search is off. I’ve found him – Perfect Man.’

  ‘I thought you already had.’

  ‘Seems there are degrees of perfect.’

  ‘So who is this guy?’

  ‘An artist. Sculptor, specifically.’

  ‘Wow.’ I’m thinking Leonardo, Michelangelo, Picasso.

  ‘Name’s Theo…’

  He’s even got the ‘o’.

  ‘It’s true what they say about youth,’ she says, dreamily.

  ‘How young is he?’ I ask cautiously.

  ‘Twenty-three…’

  Actual relief. Over the age of consent, then. I’d worried that the research might have sent her over the edge.

  ‘He’s so hot, Kim.’

  I could definitely be more interested. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Not a million miles from Ian, actually.’

  ‘Describe him.’

  ‘Pink and orange hair. Totally fit. Hung like a horse.’

  ‘Just like Ian.’ Sometimes there is no understanding her thought process. ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘I answered an ad for an artist’s model.’

  I imagine what it must be like, hanging out with an artist in New York City. ‘So, has he taken you to the Met?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Museum of Modern Art?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The Guggenheim?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what are you doing?’

  ‘Use your imagination,’ she says, huskily. ‘Anyway, just rang to say I’m coming home. My publisher wants me to start my promotional tour in Dublin. Seems I’ll be all over the media. Every paper you pick up, there I’ll be, grinning back at you.’

  Scary. ‘And what about Theo?’

  ‘Oh, Theo’s coming. I’m his muse. And he’s mine. It’s the perfect relationship.’

  ‘Relationship; that’s new.’

  She sighs dreamily. ‘I know. I’ve never felt like this before.’

  ‘Wow. That’s great. I’m so happy for you.’ I think back to when I first met Ian. We had that, then. All of it. Now it feels like I’m remembering two people I barely know.

  Ian doesn’t make the children’s concert. Mum makes up for his absence with positive energy and cheery smiles. I hide my disappointment. There are other absent dads of course. But they probably never make these things. Ian used to. Always.

  The children are bewitching. Sam has roles as a doctor, a prince and the sun. Chloe is typecast as a frog. But such a cute frog. I’m incredibly proud and struggle to record them and still witness some of the fun without a lens separating us. And yes, I am one of those mums. It’s either look ridiculous or trust the scene to memory and I’ve invested too much to have it forgotten.

  Post-concert, we go on a Treat Picnic. It’s meant to consist of nothing but treats, some healthy (dried apricots, juice and popcorn) and some not (Skittles, Rancheros, wine gums and Curly Wurlys) but Mum breaks the rules and brings along some home-made scones. I forgive her when I taste them. We keep fruit pastilles for Ian – his favourites – or at least they used to be. I’m not sure of anything about my husband any more. The children make us laugh and I log this memory, instinct telling me I might need it.

  Like a squirrel, I’ve started to store the good times. Sam climbing rocks singing, ‘We will, we will wok you’. Chloe telling me that dogs ‘drizzle’. Sam tottering around in my forgotten high heels with his trousers at half-mast. The kids asleep, still and floppy, small, pale and vulnerable. Hugs. Kisses. Cuddles. Little legs running. Little hands tickling. Brief moments captured in time – shrimp hunts, pillow fights, dressing up, rolling down slopes, eating bread meant for ducks, being given weeds – memories I’ve begun to stockpile as clouds gather on the horizon.

  I spend the summer making Jacuzzis (take a children’s paddling pool, add washing up liquid and warm water), building sandcastles, applying sunscreen, witnessing growth spurts, discovering the endless potential of the simple handkerchief and learning the basics of first aid. But the hardest thing is trying to come up with answers for things I don’t understand. Like why planes crash if a window breaks. Why some animals are meat-eaters while others won’t touch the stuff. Why the sun never burns out. And why their dad is never home.

  Deirdre French keeps popping up everywhere. On the radio – receiving the Woman of the Year Award for her contribution to literature. In the newspaper – topping the bestsellers list. Her success is a glaring reminder of all the two thousand words I’ve let fall between the keys, of the plots that stank and the characters that never came to life.

  In the evening, when I could be writing, I spend what’s left of my energy trying to interest Ian in the comings and goings of family life. It proves a bad investment. I witness him lose all semblance of interest in us, not even bothering to pretend any more. I get used to putting three plates on the table and remembering not to call him for meals. />
  When he is home I often wish he weren’t.

  ‘You never wear your black trouser suit any more,’ he says with audible regret.

  I know my clothes have taken on a heavy animation influence but: ‘You want me to wear a suit around the house now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘I don’t know, maybe when we go out.’

  ‘When do we go out?’ Now that Angela has left to see the world and Sally has moved to Cork.

  ‘In theory.’

  ‘You want me to wear a suit when we theoretically go out?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  I could call Sarah in frustration. But I know what would happen. She’d ask if I’m wearing leopard-skin lingerie. And she’s a feminist.

  So I do it. Buy the lingerie. Get my hair cut. Subject myself to some serious waxing. I even squeeze into the black trouser suit and lie in wait. Nine o’clock comes and goes. The killer knickers are riding up my bum. Ten o’clock and I’m beginning to wonder how big an idiot I am when, finally, in he walks.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ are his first words. Not, you’ll notice, ‘you look stunning’, ‘love the hair’ or ‘get naked now’.

  I clear my throat, then, in an attempt at sultry, I look down at the suit.

  Blank. Totally blank.

  I give up. ‘Pasta.’

  ‘With that sauce you’re always buying?’

  ‘With that sauce I’m always buying.’

  ‘Oh.’

  He sits at the kitchen table expecting to be served.

  I land it down in front of him. I run upstairs and rip off the suit. I fire those sexy ass-cutters in the bin. The under-wired bra gets mangled and meets the same fate. I drag on my old reliables: comfortable PJs, socks and hoodie. I flop onto the bed, beginning to feel my toes again, beginning to feel myself again. Is there anything as unsexy as a desperate woman? Oh yes, an available one. Before, I had a reason to dress up: work. Now I’ve none. And if it’s not good enough for him he can shag bloody well off.

  The helpful suggestions keep coming. I should take more exercise. Have I thought of using colour in my hair? Someone in work lost a stone at Weight Watchers. Almost to spite him, I dress down, eat up and watch my ass finally give in to gravity. Eventually, I get sense and just ignore him. He does the same to me.

  When I buy a very essential tumble dryer without checking the bank balance, he takes to muttering, conducting little tête-à-têtes with himself for minor offences like the way I make dinner, hang the clothes on the line, walk, eat, breathe, live. I’m not perfect. But I never was. And he didn’t seem to mind before.

  Bed has become a popular hiding place. He uses it. I use it. At separate times, obviously, to avoid seeing, hearing, smelling, touching or, heaven forbid, tasting each other. Our conversations, such as they are, revolve around mortgages, bills, schools and repairs. Plenty of flat monosyllables involved. Enough to make me want to scream just for variety. What-do-you-thinks and how-do-you-feels are part of our past. We have become lodgers, sharing accommodation but not our lives. Gone are calls from the office to see how I am. I’m no longer on his agenda, except when he wants me to do something. Angela has gone to see the world. There are days I want to do the same.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  One evening, to get away, I call over to Mum’s.

  ‘So, how is everything?’ she asks, pretending not to be surprised to see me at this time. She folds away The Irish Times crossword. Out comes the carrot cake and on goes the kettle.

  ‘Fine. How’re things with you?’

  ‘I was going to ring you actually. I’ve a little bit of news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Well, it’s nothing really…’

  Which means it’s something.

  She clears her throat. ‘You know Charles Bradshaw – my solicitor?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Well, we’ve actually been out on a… date or two. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why would I mind?’ Outside of the fact that Charles Bradshaw is a total plonker and she deserves better.

  ‘You know that no one will ever replace your father, Kim.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’

  ‘And a woman can get lonely…’

  Don’t I know it? ‘If anyone deserves some fun, it’s you.’

  ‘Charlie’s good company.’

  ‘Oooh! “Charlie” already? You don’t hang around.’

  ‘Stop.’ She slaps my arm. ‘You’re terrible.’ But I can tell she’s delighted.

  ‘Do I detect a little blush?’

  ‘I’m a bit long in the tooth for blushing. Charlie has been very kind, that’s all.’

  ‘Can’t fool me. I know looove when I see it.’

  ‘He’s a good listener. And it’s only been three early birds.’

  ‘Mum, stop trying to defend yourself. Just enjoy it. I’m really happy for you.’

  She smiles in relief. ‘Thanks, love. I just thought I should mention it. Just so you know.’

  ‘Well, carry on,’ I say in my best Sergeant Major accent.

  The kettle boils and she gets up to make the tea.

  While her back is turned, I innocently say: ‘I never saw you and Dad fight but you must have sometimes, right?’

  ‘Of course we had our arguments. Everyone does, don’t they?’

  ‘But were there bad patches, you know, times when maybe you didn’t talk to each other?’

  She turns and eyes me carefully.

  ‘Just wondering,’ I add.

  She carries the tea to the table but forgets to pour, too busy looking at me.

  ‘All marriages go through bad patches. It’s hard when two people are together all the time, especially with the demands of children. But I think that no matter what, you have to try and keep the lines of communication open. Never let the sun go down on an argument.’

  ‘That’s a cliché.’

  ‘There’s truth in every cliché. Kim, if you’re worried about something, talk it through.’

  Oh crap. Here come the tears.

  ‘Aw, love. What is it?’

  I shrug not trusting myself to speak or it’ll all come tumbling out.

  ‘Why don’t I babysit at the weekend? Let you and Ian out for a chat.’

  I shake my head. I can picture it now, staring across some irrelevant meal with nothing to say to each other, like those sad couples you see and want to cheer up.

  ‘How about next Friday night? Whatever this is don’t let it simmer. Nip it in the bud.’

  I sigh deeply.

  ‘I’ve just bought The Aristocats movie for the children. I’d love an excuse to watch it with them.’

  ‘What about you and Charles?’

  ‘Honey, I think Charlie can survive a night without me. This is the man you love.’

  Right now I don’t feel very loving towards him. But this is our marriage. I have to do something to save it. So I nod. ‘Thanks Mum.’

  Friday arrives and, though I’m dreading the evening, I take such care getting ready. Then, I sit well outside the splatter zone while the kids eat their dinner.

  ‘Dis basketti is scwumptious,’ says Sam, sucking up a long string of spaghetti.

  Lovely to hear a) my favourite word, basketti and b) someone compliment my food.

  But actually, they’re so slow.

  ‘Come on guys, Granny’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Can I be finished?’ Chloe asks.

  ‘Two more spoonfuls.’

  She gobbles them down. And jumps from the table.

  ‘Me too?’ Sam asks.

  ‘All right.’ They won’t die of starvation.

  Mum arrives looking gorgeous. Must be love.

  I take the DART into town and walk to Ian’s office.

  I have to wait at reception for fifteen minutes before he appears. But he looks incredibly handsome and I smile, not quite believing that this man is married to me. What is happening to me?

  We go to G
uilbaud's. And I’m not sure that that doesn’t reek of desperation.

  Small talk isn’t happening. I see him look at my hands and realise I’m fidgeting.

  ‘Ian? Can we talk?’

  He loosens his tie, clears his throat. ‘Yeah, sure.’

  ‘Do you think we’re getting on?’

  He hesitates. ‘Do you?’

  I smile. ‘I asked you first.’

  His return smile is stiff. ‘It’s been tricky since you gave up work. You’ve become…’ He pauses. ‘Sensitive.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Keep calm. Breathe.

  ‘I feel I can’t say anything or you’ll bite my head off.’

  Don’t bite his head off. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Well, we’re not having fun any more, are we?

  Don’t sound accusatory. ‘Why do you think that is?’

  ‘Well, you seem a bit down since giving up work.’

  ‘I seem down? You’re the one it’s bothering.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m just not good enough for you any more. Am I?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Maybe I am a bit sensitive. Maybe I am a bit down. Did you ever think of asking why? There’s the fact that you’re never home. There’s the fact that when you are, you give the distinct impression that you’d rather not be. And there’s the fact that I’m trying my bloody best.’ I cover my face. Tears were not on the agenda. Neither was blame. Once again, I’ve screwed up.

  And still, it could turn around. This man could reach out to this woman. He could hold her hand and tell her what she needs to hear. That he loves her. Still admires her. That she’s good looking, has a great ass, is a super mum and that he’s sorry he’s been busy but he’ll try to be around more and that he finds his family fascinating, fascinating human beings.

  Does this happen?

  No.

  The bill arrives.

  With perfect timing, the credit card machine malfunctions and Ian is asked to sign the old fashioned way. He digs his signature in, tearing through the entire thing. The waiter practically sprints from the table. Ian stands suddenly and strides off as if he can’t get away from me fast enough. I follow at my own pace, clinging to my posture like it’s all I have left.