‘You look well,’ he says accusingly.
‘Thank you.’ Nothing’s going to get me down.
‘How’s Connor?’ he asks walking over to put on the kettle.
‘Well.’
‘What did you do?’
I brighten, surprised that we’re having an actual conversation. ‘Just hung out mostly. On Saturday, he brought the kids to the park to give me a break which was lovely.’
He turns. ‘You let him take the kids out on his own?’
‘Of course. He’s great with them. They love him.’
‘I can’t believe you left him alone with the children.’
‘Stop, OK? This is Connor you’re talking about. Even if it wasn’t, do you really think I’d let Sam and Chloe go off with someone I didn’t trust? Do you really think I’m that careless?’
He shrugs, the implication being that I am. Maybe he should check their gums. They’ve probably got scurvy. I am mortified and furious– mortified for myself and somehow Ian, and furious because he is accusing our (sorry, my) friend, the friend who looked after us so well, of being the worst thing in the entire world.
‘Don’t ever and I mean, ever, accuse me of not looking after the children properly. As for Connor, he was more a father to them this weekend than you’ve been in a long time.’
‘Excuse me?’ His head juts out.
‘You heard me. If you’d seen the trouble he went to, the thought he put in, the time he spent with Sam and Chloe, you wouldn’t be in such a hurry to knock him.’
He’s walking towards me now. He reaches one of the kitchen chairs and grips the back of it. ‘So, good old Connor was a great father. What kind of husband was he?’ Nasty, nasty tone of voice.
I stare at him. ‘You can just fuck off.’ I walk out and slam the door.
In the bedroom, I simmer. And pace. When I finally seek him out it’s because somebody has to fight for this marriage.
He’s in the garden. Goose-stepping across the lawn.
‘Ian, I’m sorry. You are a good father.’ I don’t add, ‘when you’re here’, though I think it’s a relevant point.
I get a look, nothing more.
‘It’s just that you were implying that I can’t look after the kids and that’s not fair. And your remarks about Connor were out of line. You know that.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes you do. Connor is one of my oldest friends. He was, and always is, a perfect gentleman.’
He raises an eyebrow.
And I suddenly think: he’s getting off on this, the power of it – of me asking forgiveness and him deciding whether or not to give it.
‘We need to see someone, someone who won’t care who is right or wrong...’
‘What, a shrink?’
‘A therapist…’
‘I’m not telling anyone our business.’
‘We need to do something.’
‘You know what I think of those people.’
‘We can’t keep going on like this. We need help.’
‘How about you making more of an effort? That’d help.’
‘So it’s all my fault?’
‘Why can’t you be nicer to me?’
‘Why can’t you be nicer to me?’
‘It’s hard to be nice with you skiving off to London.’
‘Skiving! I had two children with me. It was a weekend. You weren’t even here.’
‘I was working.’
‘Can we please go to counselling?’
‘Not interested.’ He turns and goes inside.
I kick the swings – more than once.
Out front, I hear his car start up and reverse out – fast.
‘Great; that will really solve things, Ian.’
I go inside.
Nothing like fury to get the housework done. I clatter around the kitchen in rage and frustration. He is winning and I am losing some secret battle he is waging and I don’t even understand.
I stare out the window of a sparkling kitchen. Two robins are having sex on the swings. They might as well – someone in this house should be.
He doesn’t come home. And I don’t sleep.
The following morning, Connor calls. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I shouldn’t have to do this, reverse out of our friendship because of a jealous husband. But I don’t know what else to do. Things are just so bad.
‘So, how did it go?’ he asks. ‘Did you arrange to see someone?’
My throat burns and my eyes smart. ‘It’s OK, Connor. We talked. We’ll probably go on a holiday or something.’
‘Oh. Good. But no counselling?’
‘No.’ Tears well over. I cover my mouth so no sound escapes.
‘How are Chloe and Sam?’
‘Good,’ I choke.
‘Such great kids. You’ll have to bring them over again soon.’
‘Mm hmm.’
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah,’ I say lightly.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. Distracted.’
‘By what?’ he asks like he doesn’t believe me.
‘Writing,’ I lie. But actually, it’s what I should be doing – escaping in my mind at least, and reclaiming my independence.
‘Oh Kim, that’s great! Did you find a plot?’
I start to think out loud. ‘I’m not going to worry about plot…or anything. I’m just going to see what comes.’ My lie is becoming the truth. I’m going to do this. I have to.
‘I should leave you to it.’
‘Thanks, Connor.’ Once again, he has rescued me.
‘Call anytime you need to, anytime you want to talk.’
‘Will do,’ I lie.
‘Do!’ he orders.
‘And listen, don’t feel you need to call. I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine. Honestly. We just needed to talk.’
There’s a pause. ‘I might just touch base once a week or so.’
‘Oh. OK. Sure. Would before seven be OK… just in case you wake the kids?’
‘Of course. Talk soon. And Kim?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’m so glad it’s working out.’
‘Thanks, Connor. For everything.’
In the notebook that my husband once gave me, I write about a woman who is losing herself, disappearing in the day to day.
Every entry records her growing isolation.The walls of her world move in on her a fraction more every day. She wonders if she screamed would anyone hear.She stops caring – not just about her husband but about everything. Other people’s lives are moving ahead. Her new sister-in-law is pregnant. Her friend has got engaged to her latest Perfect Man. Her former child minder is starting college. She is becalmed. And no longer cares.
Her husband works later and later. She does not come downstairs to welcome home his disappointment. When he finally makes it to the bedroom, she pretends to be asleep. It’s easier.
One night, he doesn’t come home at all. She is surprised that, next day, he bothers to explain about the big deal ‘going down’, how he’d to work till two and how, because he had to be up at six, ‘all the guys’ stayed in the Conrad.
She wishes him back in his boring old job with his pre-Wolf-of-Wall-Street vocabulary. She wishes their old life back.
The children start to creep into her bed. She doesn’t bother moving them out. He sleeps in their son’s bed – when he is actually home.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sarah arrives home with a penname – Sexton. Her debut novel is already a number one bestseller. The Sunday Independent wants an outdoor photo of the author. Sarah suggests my garden, thinking that she can catch up with me at the same time. Unfortunately, she fails to run this by me. So I don’t get to warn her about the state of our garden.
Seeing it now, she realises her mistake.
‘Jesus, Kim, what happened here?’
I glance at the kids, one of whom is watering the grass with sand.
‘Here, grab the bike and scooters and we’ll throw them
in the shed.’
‘What about all the other stuff?’
‘That too. Guys, give us a hand. Everything into the shed.’
They jump up, excited at the idea of a sudden mission.
‘Even the sandpit?’ asks Chloe.
Sarah goes over. ‘Good God. Is that muck in there?’
‘We’ll just cover it,’ I answer them both.
‘Aww, Mum,’ complains a muddy Sam.
Sarah’s look is: I-will-never-have-children. She checks her watch. ‘Oh God.’
‘Movie time,’ I say.
‘But we don’t want a movie now.’
‘I’ll give you ice cream.’
They nod, coolly, negotiation complete.
Settling them in front of the TV, I glance out into the garden and smile. The manicured, coiffed, professionally-styled glamour puss is picking up mucky trucks with the tip of her finger and thumb and holding them out from her as she totters in her Miu Miu’s to the shed.
Garden surprisingly respectable, we open a bottle of wine and wait for the photographer.
‘So. How’s Theo?’ I ask.
She grimaces.
‘What?’ I ask.
She gulps wine as though washing down a pill. Then she sighs. ‘That didn’t work out.’
‘But you were engaged!’
She lights up, takes a phenomenal drag, tilts her head back and blows smoke into the already grey sky.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say.
She waves her hand. ‘Lucky escape, really. Mummy fixation.’ She tops up our glasses and raises hers. ‘To the Irish male – seems you can’t beat him after all.’ But I can tell that she’s gutted. ‘How are things with you and that sexy husband of yours?’
I can think of a lot of adjectives; sexy isn’t one of them. ‘Fine.’ Moving right along…. ‘So how’s fame?’
She shakes her head. ‘Hilarious. Everyone wants to know who the real people are behind the characters.’
‘I’m dying to read it.’
From her oversized designer bag she produces a copy.
‘Wow! It looks great. Such an achievement, Sarah. Seriously. Huge congratulations.’
‘Open it.’
It’s autographed. Which is weird. Like I’m a fan. Which I’m sure I will be…. ‘Thanks, Sarah.’ I leaf through the pages, then glance up. ‘You must be so proud.’
‘Haven’t really stopped to think. But yeah. I guess.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Well, it’s a contemporary story of an affair,’ she begins like she’s surprised I haven’t heard.
‘No, I mean, the life. What’s it like being a published author?’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, fine. I guess. A bit weird total strangers coming up and telling you you’ve written their life.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Had a woman this morning. Told me she was just like the main character, missing the most obvious signs that her husband was having an affair. She didn’t want to see it. Kept making excuses for him. When it was so obvious.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Bit of an idiot, though. It was a textbook case. Late nights, always out, never up for a shag, touchy.’
Suddenly, this has become personal. ‘People work late, Sarah. They get too tired to shag. Marriage is hard. Bloody hard.’
She stares at me.
‘You don’t know what it’s like with kids. You just don’t know.’
‘Yeah and I don’t want to.’
‘You should listen to yourself sometimes. You sound so bloody smug, like you’ve life sussed and everyone else is a moron. Life is messy, Sarah.’
‘Life with kids certainly is.’
‘Yeah, well, be careful not to air that view in the media. There are people out there going through this shit. And it’s not easy.’
‘Point taken,’ she says pointing her cigarette at me. ‘Don’t want to turn off potential readers. You always were good at PR.’
I look at her and wonder if she lost her heart somewhere between New Zealand and New York.
The doorbell rings. She takes out a mirror while I go let the photographer in.
‘Kim? Kim Waters?’
‘Hey, Pete!’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I live here.’
‘I’d heard you’d quit. Good for you. You’re writing now, yeah?’
‘Trying.’ I smile.
I show him out the back and introduce him to Sarah. Then leave them to it.
I go in to the kids and tell them that our garden will be famous – we’ll buy The Sunday Independent and celebrate.
Sarah stays in town for three days. On her last night, she calls around to say goodbye. Ian, who was never a fan, seems to find her suddenly fascinating, asking question after question about publishing. How did she find her agent? What’s her fan mail like? Will her advance allow her to write full-time? And though I’m a shadow in the room, it is good to see him animated. And it is good to learn more about my dream world and have a new energy in the house. I know that everything about Sarah highlights my shortcomings. Still, her visit serves as a temporary blip in a downward spiral. I wish I could make it last. Instead, I call Connor and ask him to put her up. London’s her next stop and she’s tired of hotels. I hang up and immediately wonder if that was wise.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It’s a Saturday morning and my birthday. Ian is up early, getting ready for golf. I go into the en suite to use the loo. He’s standing in front of the mirror, slapping on aftershave.
I stare at him. ‘What are you doing?’
He practically drops the bottle. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re allergic!’
‘Oh. This stuff’s OK.’ He lifts up the bottle.
‘Why are you wearing aftershave all of a sudden?’
‘I don’t know. A change.’ He checks his watch. ‘Gotta go.’
I don’t know whether he’s forgotten my birthday or decided not to bother. I’m so used to not caring, I’m surprised how close to tears I come.
I bring the laptop to bed. And lose myself in words.
‘Happy Birthday, Mum!’
I look up to see Chloe carrying in a tray, Sam skipping beside her. He gives a little jump. My heart lifts and breaks at the same time.
Their breakfast is Cornflakes mixed with Coco-Pops, soggy now and drowning in sugar.
‘Thank you so much, guys. I’m so proud of you. Come up here beside me.’
‘Eat up,’ Chloe says.
‘Yes sir.’ I wink. And get going.
Beside me, they watch each spoonful reach its intended destination.
‘Best breakfast ever,’ I say.
We plan the day. Then kick it off with flying. Chloe goes first. I lie on my back, place my feet under her hips, my hands under her shoulders. She stretches out her arms and legs as I move her back and forward through the clouds.
‘Wee,’ we say together.
‘My turn! My turn!’ shouts Sam.
Finally, we go downstairs. Ian’s golf clubs are lying against the back door. In his hurry to get out, he must have forgotten them. I’m surprised he hasn’t rung to give out because, for some reason, this, too, will be my fault.
But he doesn’t ring.
I remember the aftershave. And remind myself that I trust my husband.
The beautiful oil painting Mum presents me with makes me cry. Connor calls from London to send his best wishes. Then he puts Sarah on the line. They sound so happy, so carefree. So much younger than me – though neither is.
I bring the kids on a train ride. We have a picnic and feed the ducks on St Stephen’s Green. And I try not to think that Ian should be here.
From the kitchen window I nurse a coffee watching them play in the sandpit, Chloe sifting sand like a domestic goddess. The gene must have skipped a generation.
Ian comes home smiling. He even gives me a hug.
I think, he’s remembered.
‘It’s OK. I
’ve eaten,’ he says.
‘How was the golf?’ I manage.
‘Great.’
‘Didn’t miss the clubs then?’
‘What?’
‘You forgot your clubs. I was surprised you didn’t ring for them.’
His expression changes quickly but I see it in slow motion. Panic, embarrassment, guilt.
‘I borrowed James’s,’ he hurries.
‘James? My brother?’ But how? James is in the States.
‘No, James from work, the guy I play with.’
‘Oh. You never mentioned him before.’
‘Yes, I have. You just never listen.’
I would if he actually talked. He wouldn’t have mentioned a James any more than he’d have mentioned a Melanie.
‘So who is he?’
‘Why the sudden interest?’
‘You accused me of not listening; well, now I am. Who is he?’
‘Just some guy at work.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Malahide.’
‘Malahide? And he comes all the way over here to play golf?’
‘Golfers travel for their sport,’ he says like he’s in the know and I’m not.
‘Where do you even play?’ I can’t believe I don’t know where he goes on Saturdays. Don’t I care enough to ask?
‘Elm Park.’
‘Really? I thought the waiting list was closed.’ Thank you, morning radio.
‘It is but the guys at work are members and got me in.’
‘How much did it cost?’
‘A few hundred.’
‘Really, is that all?’ He’s actually lying to my face.
‘I can’t remember. It might have been more.’
‘It’s just that I thought we were checking big expenditures with each other.’ Rule made after the tumble-dryer fiasco.
‘Kim I happen to be earning the money around here.’
‘So you keep reminding me.’
‘So have we finished with the fifty questions?’
‘No. We’ve only just started. Who is she, Ian?’
He narrows his eyes. ‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me. Who is she?’
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