CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
It’s sausages that convince me to go to London. It happens like this: Sam and Chloe place an order of rashers and sausages with the Kitchens. While I’m at it, I ask Ian if he wants anything. Three sausages, comes his exact reply.
‘How many did you do for me?’ he asks when I place one in front of him.
‘Three.’
‘Where are the other two?’
I look at him. ‘Cooking,’ I say, rather than, ‘up my sleeve’.
‘I wanted them at the same time.’
‘Are you serious?’ I don’t include the word ‘fucking’ – there are children present.
‘Mu..uu..um,’ whines Sam. ‘You neva got me a fowk.’
I roll my eyes and retrieve the desired utensil. ‘You know, sometimes I feel like moving to a desert island inhabited only by women.’
‘Can I come?’ asks Chloe enthusiastically.
‘Yes, honey, you can.’ I kiss the top of her head.
Then I decide. London will be my desert island.
I wait till that evening to tell Ian.
‘Why?’ he asks sitting on the bed, unbuttoning his shirt.
‘You’ll be off at that conference anyway. And I need a break.’
‘Can’t you wait till I get back and we’ll all go on a weekend away together?’
As if that would ever happen. ‘That’d be great. But I’m also going to London. You won’t be here to miss us. I may as well.’
‘But why do you have to go and see Connor?’ He’s standing now, facing me.
‘He’s the only one inviting us. And I’m not spending money on a hotel. I thought you’d be glad. The flights are so cheap.’
‘Don’t you think it’s a bit iffy going off to stay with another man?’
I laugh. ‘We’re talking about Connor here, not some sex God.’
‘What about his drink problem?’
‘Connor doesn’t drink.’
‘Yeah but we all know what happens when he does.’
‘That was a long time ago. He hasn’t touched the stuff since. It’s not as if he’s an alcoholic. Drink just doesn’t suit him.’
‘He has the hots for you, you know.’
‘What?!’ Now who’s paranoid?
‘Maybe you don’t notice but I do.’
‘You just don’t want me to go.’
‘No. I don’t. He has a history of violence.’
‘When he drinks. Which he doesn’t.’
‘I don’t want you to bring my kids over there.’
All of a sudden they’re his kids. As for his opinion of Connor… ‘You know, Connor sees you as a friend.’
‘OK, let’s not fool ourselves here. Connor is your friend. I tolerate him.’
Jesus. ‘Big of you.’
‘Why do we always have to fight?’ He drags on a T-shirt and walks into the bathroom.
I follow. ‘On this occasion because I stand up for my friends. And for the record, that is what Connor is. A friend. He doesn’t fancy me. I’m not his type.’
He turns from the sink, toothbrush in hand. He does a deliberate head-to-toe sweep of me, then says, ‘I suppose you’re right,’ as if he means, ‘you wouldn’t be anyone’s type.’
‘I’m going. With or without your approval.’
‘Sure, go ahead, what do I care?’ He flings his toothbrush into the sink as if he cares very much and then sighs, his millionth this month.
I lie in bed, seething. My friendship with Connor goes back to school. Whatever relationships we were in, we always stayed friends, best friends. But you can’t be best friends with a guy when you’re married. I gave up our closeness for Ian. And now he pulls this. Drink isn’t a problem and he knows it. Once Connor reacted badly to it. Some eejit started moving in on his girlfriend. Connor lost it. The guy ended up in hospital. Connor got sorted with a psychologist, stopped drinking. End of story. End of problem. It should not be used against him. I’m sorry I ever told Ian. But then I tell him everything. Or at least I used to.
The days pass with mounting excitement. Sam because he’ll be going on the Underground; Chloe because she’ll be going on a plane; and me because I am: a) getting away b) seeing Connor c) going to London and d) not coming back. OK d)’s a joke. For now, I’m off and feeling a little giddy.
Ian calls from work wondering what time we’re flying out on Friday. Apparently, he’d like to see us off. Why the sudden interest? I’m available round the clock.
‘Actually, we’re going on Thursday.’
‘Thursday? I thought you said the weekend?’
‘Long weekend. The flights are less expensive that way. We leave Thursday, back Sunday night.’
‘OK. Whatever.’
I soften. ‘Ian, you won’t be home anyway. And we’ll all be in better form when we see each other again. I know we will.’
‘Gotta go here.’
‘OK. Off you go.’
‘Off you go,’ he says unhappily.
In Arrivals, Connor breaks into a smile and waves exaggeratedly.
I laugh. ‘Eejit.’
Physical contact (his simple hug) is a recipe for tears. But I am strong. I am a warrior.
‘It’s so good to see you!’ he says. Not: ‘God, you look terrible,’ or any of the wide variety of ass comments he could make, like: ‘What happened to your ass?’ or ‘I see you’ve brought your ass,’ or ‘How did you get THAT through Customs?’ He just whirls us away.
Driving through London in his open-top, I begin to feel human.
His pad in Chelsea is minimalist chic. Modigliani man fits right in.
Oh my God. He’s gone out and bought a little wooden train for Sam, a fairy outfit for Chloe and a miniature painting for me.
‘Jesus, Connor.’
‘Didn’t want you guys to be bored here in the bachelor pad.’
He pours me a glass of wine, instructs me to sit down and puts a coffee-table book on Art Deco into my hands. Then he transforms into a horse and plays with my kids. I am so grateful to let someone else take over for a while.
When they are, finally, tucked up in Connor’s gigantic spare bed, (Chloe still wearing her new fairy outfit and Sam holding his train), Connor makes cocktails. His is non-alcoholic. Mine is a Cosmopolitan. He holds out a frosted glass housing an icy pink drink and it feels like I’m on holidays.
‘Cheers!’ he says. ‘Dinner in a sec.’
‘Connor! We can get takeaway!’
‘I’ve everything ready to go. Was busy chopping while you were putting the kids to bed. Anyway it’s just stir-fry.’
‘Want a hand?’
‘I cook alone.’
Thank God, I think, closing my eyes and tilting my head back. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Then I take another sip. Watching Connor clatter around the kitchen brings me back to a time when a young economist, trying to impress his new girlfriend, cooked her a meal. Out of tune and using the wooden spoon as a mike, he sang, ‘Climb every woman.’ He wasn’t trying to be funny; just didn’t know the lyrics. And that was it, the exact moment I fell in love.
I don’t know when I last heard Ian sing or look as carefree as Connor does now. Last time I saw him laugh was at the barbeque. My heart sinks as I realise the truth: he is happier at work than at home. I knock back what is fast becoming Cosmo-medicine.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
We remember old times, good times, ridiculous times. Ridiculous people. Great people. I laugh to the point of pain. And my heart soars. Because I am still me. After all.
Over coffee I go quiet, remembering how things are at home. I look at Connor and decide that now would be a good time to save him. Because something good has to come from my mistakes.
‘Con, I want to tell you something important, something really important. Are you listening? Because this’s really important.’ OK, I’m drunk.
He smiles. ‘I’m all ears.’
I point at him. ‘When you get married, make sure it’s to the right woman. Li
ve with her first – for, like, seven years. Or more.’
He raises his eyebrows.
‘I’m serious.’
‘You and Ian didn’t hang around, though, and you’re happy.’
I shake my head sadly. ‘No. Not any more.’ My sigh is like all the sighs in the world combined.
‘But you’re like, I don’t know, Dempsey and Makepeace, Fred and Wilma….’
‘Maybe we were Fred and Wilma. But Fred changed when Wilma quit work. Wait, why are we talking about Fred and Wilma?’
‘How has he changed?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I wave an impatient hand. ‘Doesn’t matter. This isn’t about Ian. It’s about you. Don’t rush, OK? Take your time. Be sure. You know?’
‘OK but what’s up with you guys?’
‘Nothing. It’s OK. We’ll sort it out.’
‘Only that we made a pact, remember? If one of us is in trouble, the other’s there.’
‘We were twenty-one.’
‘So?’
I shrug. I feel so suddenly tired.
‘Hey,’ he says so softly. ‘What’s up? It can’t be that bad.’
From where I’m sitting, it couldn’t be worse. ‘He doesn’t love me any more.’ There, I’ve said it.
‘I’m sure that’s not true.’
‘He’s changed. Ever since I quit work, he’s lost all respect for me – and he used to have a lot. Remember?’
‘Your biggest fan.’
‘Well, now he’s never home. He’s even taken up golf. It’s like he doesn’t want to be with us. It’s like he thinks we’re boring or suburban or something.’
‘Go on.’
‘The other day, the look he gave me for not hanging the clothes out properly on the line.’
‘What?!’
Another sigh, equally deep. ‘I’d been using the tumble dryer a lot so I decided to cut down on electricity, you know, to save money. I didn’t think to clean the line before hanging out the clothes and, because I hadn’t been using it, they got marks on them. I had to take them all down and wash them again. The look he gave me – like I’m the world’s biggest moron.’
‘Maybe you were imagining it.’
‘I know Ian. And I know when he’s being a bastard. He was being a bastard.’
‘Maybe he was just being stupid. Maybe it didn’t mean anything.’
I shake my head. ‘He constantly finds fault with what I do, especially the way I look after the kids. If they’re cranky, it’s because I didn’t make sure they slept enough. If they won’t sleep it’s because I let them nap during the day. If they don’t eat, it’s because I gave them treats. If they get sick, it’s because I didn’t give them vitamins. Everything, everything, is my fault.’ I will not cry. I will not cry.
‘All since you gave up the business?’
I nod. ‘Maybe he only likes independent women or something. But I am working. I’m writing. Well, I’m supposed to be. That is, I will be after the summer. Anyway, minding two children is a full-time job. It really is.’
‘Have you spoken to him about it?’
‘We end up fighting. I’m doing my best. I’m trying to be a good mum. I’m trying to stay strong, confident but it’s getting harder and harder. He’s turned nasty.’
His eyes widen. ‘He hasn’t hit you?’
‘No! God no.’
‘Because I’d kill him. You know I’d kill him.’
‘He wouldn’t.’ I shake my head adamantly. ‘Whatever else, he’d never hit me.’ Then I smile. ‘I’d kill him!’
‘At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour.’
‘No, I have. And I’ve lost my energy. And very soon, the will to save my marriage.’
‘Surely, it can’t be just because you gave up work? I mean, you’re still the same person.’
‘Try telling him that.’ Then it strikes me. ‘You know, because of all this, I’m becoming a different person: defensive and paranoid and depressed and sad. Are depressed and sad the same thing? I’ve never had a problem with confidence. Now, I feel this small.’ I pinch the air. ‘If I weren’t a fighter, I’d be this size.’ I close my finger and thumb so that they all but meet. ‘I don’t want to fight. And I don’t want the kids to grow up witnessing that. But sometimes I’m just so frustrated I forget they’re there. Sam shouts, “shut up, shut up,” and covers his ears. Chloe goes really quiet. It’s terrible.’ My fingers dig into my forehead. My jaw jerks out of kilter; my lip wobbles and I’m crying. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just so tired. If it wasn’t for the kids I’d probably stop trying.’
‘Shh,’ he soothes. ‘It’s OK. We’ll sort this out.’
I’m so glad of that ‘we’.
He runs his hand over his mouth. ‘What about counselling?’
‘Ian wouldn’t see a counsellor even if he had a hot stock tip – well actually, in that case….’ But it’s not funny.
‘I’m sure he wants to sort things out too, though.’
‘He thinks everything’s my fault.’
‘Maybe advice from a third party might mean something to him?’
‘If he’d go.’
‘I don’t think you’ve anything to lose by trying?’
‘Except another argument.’
‘One argument versus saving your marriage...’
‘I know you’re right. I’m just tired of being the one doing all the trying.’
He just looks at me.
I take a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll do it. I’ll try and get him to go.’
He winks. ‘Atta girl.’
I wake to shrieks of, ‘Surprise!’
Connor carries my favourite breakfast in on a tray: toasted bagel, orange juice and coffee. Sam has the newspaper. And, from behind her back, Chloe produces tulips.
I touch my heart. ‘Aw, you guys. Come here and give me a hug.’
Sam and Chloe race over, climb on the bed and snuggle into me.
I look at Connor. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
I check my watch – almost eleven. I haven’t slept this late since I worked, back when we took turns to get up with the kids.
‘Chloe was telling me she can swing all by herself,’ Connor says. ‘So, I thought we’d take the Underground to Hyde Park.’ He looks at Sam as he says Underground.
Sam hops off the bed and bursts to the door. ‘Let’s go. Let’s go.’ He’s jumping up and down.
‘Hang on. I have to get dressed.’
‘You’re not coming,’ Connor says. ‘We’re meeting you for lunch. I’ve written down the details. And you have my number.’
The thought of a morning to myself… ‘You sure?’
‘See you later. Come on, Chloe.’
‘Wow. You really are a star.’
‘As are you – you just have to remind yourself a bit, OK?’
I lounge over breakfast, take my time with the newspaper, delay in the shower – without one interruption, one request, one emergency. This is what heaven must be like, I think, as the water pounds down on me. I circle my shoulders, tip my head back and let out a long breath. Leaving the apartment, I feel as though I’ve washed away years.
I wander through art gallery after art gallery. My heart expands. My steps lighten.
And then I realise the time.
I rush into the restaurant, late, carrying a small oil painting.
‘I am so sorry, Connor.’
He smiles. ‘Just show me the painting.’
Excitedly, I unwrap it.
‘What is it?’ Chloe asks, frowning.
‘A painting.’
‘I know that. What is it?’
‘Oh. Eh. I don’t know. It’s called abstract.’
They pass it around.
‘So it’s a picture of nothing?’ Chloe asks.
‘Pretty much.’
She nods. ‘I like it.’
‘Me too,’ says Sam.
I notice a woman at a nearby table smiling at us. She looks at us and sees a happy family. And that floors
me all over again.
As we’re leaving, Connor tells me that his sister Grace has offered to babysit tonight.
‘Wow, that’s so nice of her.’
‘She’s devoted to… my money. She can come for half-seven. That OK?’
‘Sure. I’ll have the kids in bed.’
‘Awww, Mum.’
‘I’ll read you a story first, of course.’
‘Could Connor?’
I turn to him.
He looks at the kids. ‘Connor could.’
‘You’re better than any shrink,’ I quietly tell him.
‘What’s a shrink?’ Sam asks.
‘Someone small,’ Chloe explains knowledgeably.
Another chic restaurant. Another window table. I join Connor in drinking Coke – easy to be thoughtful when it’s no longer every woman for herself. Suddenly, I don’t want to go home. I want to hide away here, burrow my head into sand. Instead, I raise my chin and determine to ‘fake it till I make it’.
Too soon, we’re at the airport and I’m fighting those ostrich feelings again.
‘Thanks, Connor. So much.’
‘Anytime. I mean that. Anytime. I’m here, OK?’
I nod.
‘You’re a bright, intelligent, beautiful woman. Remember that. OK?’
Why is it that when people are nice to you, it makes you want to cry? I force a smile. ‘You’ve been amazing, Connor. You may even have restored my faith in men.’
‘Steady.’ He smiles. Then he scoops up the children.
I get a sudden urge to do what Chloe is doing: throw my arms round his neck and cling to him. And he must sense this because, once she’s safely back down, he quietly says:
‘Don’t forget how strong you are, Kimmy. Sort this out. Find a counsellor. Make it work. For everyone’s sake.’ He looks down at Chloe and Sam and winks.
‘Come on, Mum or we’ll miss the plane,’ Chloe says.
‘I’ll call you,’ Connor promises.
Walking towards Security, I feel like a child on a Sunday night, dreading school next day.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sunday night. Watching Ian drop his bags in the kitchen without a hug reminds me of the status quo. It also reminds me that he didn’t call us while we were in London. He looks at me, sitting at the table going through Friday’s uninteresting post.
All We Have Lost Page 10
