All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  The heap I feel most venomous towards contains The Investors Chronicle, The Economist and biographies of business tycoons like Warren Buffet, Peter Lynch and Bill Gates. I throw the lot into the fireplace and set it alight. I watch the fire taking hold, curling up the cover of a magazine, discolouring it and finally bursting into coloured flame.

  I catch sight of my rings, winking up at me like a rebellion. I wiggle them off. I fling my wedding band into the fire. I hold the engagement ring between my finger and thumb, looking at the stones and remembering what it was like to be so in love that I felt like I could burst. So marriage isn’t forever, after all. Diamonds can be, though. I’ll get them reset. Turn them into earrings. Or nose rings. Any damn rings I want.

  The fire burns out. I head to bed. But can I sleep? Not when I can be imagining him with a brand new mistress, his boss, a successful woman, a stone cold bitch. I think of the hours I’ve wasted, torturing myself with images of Melanie when all the time the real culprit was dodging my hate vibes. I’ll make up for it though. I’ll hate her twice as much. But as the sun slowly rises, I come up with a better plan.

  At nine, I make a call to my (completely innocent) accomplice. Mum says she’d be delighted to mind the children.

  I drop them over. Then, music blaring, (Transvision Vamp), I drive into town.

  This will be my last time at the offices of AGT Corporate Finance. Good. I hate financial institutions.

  Automatic doors part as I enter. Catching my reflection, I look confident and composed. My visit to Wexford has paid off. Hair looks great. As does the red dress. I could pass for an AGT client were it not for the two white sacks slung over each shoulder. I drop them on the ground at reception and announce that I’ve come to see Ian Kavanagh. Calling him ‘my husband’ kills me but gives me automatic rights. The receptionist’s look doesn’t say, ‘Oh great, it’s Santa Claus,’ rather, ‘Here’s trouble.’

  ‘He’s actually in a meeting, Mrs Kavanagh.’

  ‘Waters,’ I correct. ‘Not Kavanagh.’

  She smiles politely. ‘Of course. But he can’t be interrupted.’ She nods to the boardroom as back up. ‘I’ll tell him you dropped by. Or you could wait. But it will be a while.’

  ‘Is his boss in there too?’ I ask innocently.

  ‘Yes, most of the team.’

  Well, hello Luck, welcome back. Now, hold on tight. We’re going in.

  ‘Excuse me!’ the receptionist calls. ‘Where are you going, Mrs Kav…?’

  All heads pop up as the door crashes back against the wall. I swing one bag into the room, then the other. Stunned silence as I walk to the glass-topped, boardroom table and land the first sack down, wondering how many times her bony ass has fogged it up. The binoculars I bought Ian for his thirtieth birthday shatter the glass like she’s shattered my life. I look at her, standing at the head of the table, staring at me like I’m something she scraped off her shoe.

  She stares at Ian. ‘Get her out of here now!’

  Gripping the back of his chair, he quietly says, ‘Kim, please.’

  Ignoring him, I open the knot on the sack that has wrecked the table. I start to fling his things at her – boxers, ties, tatty, greying vests (bet she hasn’t seen these).

  Ian starts towards me. ‘Kim, please…’

  ‘He’s all yours,’ I say to her. Then I turn to him. ‘It’s OK, Ian. I’m leaving. Enjoy the rest of the meeting. Oh and if you’re looking for your clubs, they’re in the canal.’

  I swing the family car out of its space with a screech. I flatten the accelerator, pretending it’s his skull. I blast up Alanis Morrisette and shout lyrics that proclaim contempt for and independence of men.

  ‘Were you at a meeting Mum?’ asks Chloe, taking in the dress and heels – the Mum she used to know.

  ‘Yes, sweetie and it went really well.’ I sound a little hoarse from the singing.

  I lift her up and throw her high.

  She laughs. ‘Again!’

  ‘Me, too,’ Sam demands, raising his arms.

  I feel a little manic. So I look at Mum to calm me down. I’ll have to tell her eventually. I’ll have to tell them all. For now, I throw my kids in the air.

  The day is fun. I make sure of it. At eight, I crash as two sleepless nights take their toll. But I wake again at four. Nothing I do can get me back to sleep. I relive my performance at AGT Corporate Finance with shame and sadness. What have I turned into?

  The door opens. It’s Chloe. She climbs in beside me. I cover her up and she goes back to sleep. Her face is soft and pale. Little china doll. One drop and she’ll break. How am I going to tell her?

  At half-five, I’m awake but groggy when my phone rings. I make a grab for it before it wakes Chloe.

  ‘Kim! I wanted you to be the first to know!’ Sarah gushes.

  ‘Sarah, it’s five in the morning,’ I whisper.

  ‘Ooops, soooorreee, forgot about the time-difference.’

  ‘You’re in London. There is no time-difference.’

  ‘Actually, I’m in Vegas. You sitting down?’

  ‘Lying down.’ And so close to hanging up.

  ‘You’re talking to a married woman.’

  I sit up.

  ‘Connor and I eloped…’

  Connor? Connor and Sarah? No way.

  ‘You there?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, I’m here. Hang on.’ I get up, root in the dark for a cardigan and pad out to the landing.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ she asks like she can’t contain herself.

  ‘I think it’s amazing.’ As long as it’s not one of her jokes… in which case, not funny.

  ‘Imagine! Flying to Vegas like mad young things. I’m still on a high.’

  ‘You went to stay with him for a week.’

  ‘I know!’

  ‘Nothing happens that fast.’ Except marriage break-ups – they take just twenty-four hours.

  ‘I know, right?’

  I open the airing cupboard and search for socks. ‘But marriage? I thought you’d given up on the idea?’

  ‘I had. Until Connor. He is amazing, Kim.’

  ‘True.’ But is he that impulsive? That mad?

  ‘Guess who proposed.’

  ‘You?’

  She laughs. ‘After a weekend of shagadelic sex. And do you know what he said?’

  Yes, obviously.

  ‘“Why not?”’

  Expressions like, ‘lamb to the slaughter’, ‘look before you leap’, and ‘Mayday, Mayday’, crowd my mind. Everything I admired about Sarah has become a threat. Connor’s such a softie. She’ll chew him up and spit him out. But maybe I’m wrong, being melodramatic. It could work. Love might conquer all. But I’m not Kim-In-Love, I’m Kim-Will-Never-Love-Again, I’m Kim-What-Is-Love-Anyway? And who-gives-a-fuck? I’m exhausted. It doesn’t matter.

  ‘And I’ve you to thank, Kimmy. If I’d stayed in a hotel, we’d never have met. You planned that, didn’t you, you little Cupid?’

  ‘No, Sarah, I didn’t.’

  She gushes on for over an hour. I don’t mention that our situations have flipped. Why dent her high? When she finally hangs up, I don’t know whether it’s the idea that my friends have found love in each other or that Ian is in bed with his boss but I am suddenly the loneliest person in the world. You think you will always matter. And then you don’t.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  I’m packing a picnic and wondering how a person finds a good lawyer when Connor calls.

  ‘She cast a spell on me,’ he jokes. ‘I was powerless.’ There’s a pause. His voice grows serious. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Mind?’

  ‘Me stealing your best friend.’

  ‘I’ve two best friends. And now they’re together. I’m so happy for you both.’ I don’t add, ‘for as long as it lasts,’ because that’s the cynic in me; it has nothing to do with them.

  ‘Thanks, Kim. Means a lot.’

  There’s a pause. A gap. A beat. If anyone c
an help me, it’s Connor.

  ‘Con, can I ask you something?’ I try to sound light.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Do you know any good lawyers in Dublin? I’m looking for one for a friend.’

  ‘What kind of lawyer? Personal injury, conveyancing, family law, employment law?’

  ‘Well, they’re splitting up so, family law, I guess.’ I try to sound casual.

  ‘What does she want, your friend, a divorce or separation?’

  Two words that seem so final. I choke. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Kim, what’s wrong?’

  I can’t speak.

  ‘This friend… It’s you, isn’t it?’

  I bite my hand. Hard.

  ‘Oh God. It is you.’

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath.

  ‘What happened?’

  Suddenly I need to tell someone. ‘I kicked him out. He was having an affair.’

  ‘Aw, Kim.’

  ‘I feel like such a fool.’

  ‘I’ll kill him.’

  ‘Tempting offer but for now I just need a lawyer, a tough, son-of-a-bitch lawyer.’

  ‘I’m coming home.’

  ‘No. You’re on honeymoon. Anyway, Sarah would murder you.’ I smile. ‘Look, I’ve done the hardest bit – I’ve told him to go.’

  There’s a long pause. Then a sigh. ‘All right. Let me get you a number.’

  ‘Thanks, Connor.’

  ‘OK, I’m going to call this guy I know, a legal genius. He’s not in family law but he’ll know someone good who is.’

  ‘OK, thanks.’

  ‘I’m also sending you the number of a great psychologist.’

  ‘Why would I need a psychologist?’ I ask defensively.

  ‘Peter’s great, very practical. He’ll advise you on what to say to Sam and Chloe and how to cope with their questions. Give him a ring. For advice. Tell him you’re a friend of mine.’

  I nod. ‘Thanks, Con.’

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Grand,’ I lie. ‘And hey, congratulations.’

  ‘You think we’re crazy, right?’ He’s smiling.

  ‘Crazy!’ I’m smiling too.

  ‘I’ll …we’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Well, don’t come for me. I’ll get this lawyer sorted and I’ll be grand. Seriously.’

  ‘I’ll call tomorrow. And we’ll be home soon, OK?’

  ‘Enjoy your honeymoon.’

  Only seven years ago, we were on ours, I think as I hang up. Never did I imagine, when watching Ian by the pool stitching a button onto his trousers so heroically, that it would all be over so quickly.

  Then Sarah rings. ‘He doesn’t deserve you, Kim. Fecker. Seriously. Fecker.’

  ‘I know.’ I think of our seven-year marriage and start to cry.

  ‘Aw, Kim.’

  ‘I’m the idiot in your book.’

  ‘No I’m the idiot. Sometimes I think I should staple my mouth shut. I never thought for a moment…’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ I say bitterly.

  ‘You did the right thing, telling him to go. Just you wait. He’ll come running.’

  ‘No he won’t. And I don’t want him to.’ But part of me does. Part of me wants him to arrive at the door, swoop me up in his arms and tell me it’ll be OK, then grab the nearest pair of trousers and stitch a button on – even if it doesn’t need it.

  ‘There I was going on about Connor when you guys had just split up. Why didn’t you stop me?’

  ‘I was happy for you, Sarah. I wasn’t going to ruin it for you.’ And then, just so she appreciates what she has, I add, ‘You couldn’t have picked a nicer guy. You’re lucky.’

  ‘I don’t deserve him. Or you. Forgive me and my big mouth.’

  I smile. ‘Part of your charm.’

  ‘I won’t let Connor kill him, by the way; I’ll get there first.’

  I laugh. And feel a little less alone.

  ‘Good girl. You’re so independent,’ I say to Chloe who needs to learn to dress herself. Fend for herself. Think for herself. Suit herself. Survive. On her own. Take no shit. From anyone. Ever.

  We go downstairs together. She skips into the kitchen, so proud of her achievement.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ she asks cheerfully.

  Oh God. Not now. Not ever, actually. ‘At work, honey,’ I say lightly. No doubt he is.

  ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

  ‘Coco Pops, Ready Brek, Alpen, Cheerios…’ Thank God for cereal.

  ‘Melon and then toast with melted butter.’

  ‘Could we be any more specific?’

  ‘What?’

  I wink at her. ‘Nothing. Sit up at the table.’

  Before she’s even finished the melon, I’ve made an appointment with Connor’s psychologist.

  Next day, I hurry the kids into the car, late for the psychologist’s appointment. Across the road, a neighbour gives a cheery wave. Two-to-one Breda O’Neill has already noticed Ian’s gone. Seven-to-one she thinks I’ve murdered him. I return her wavy wave and lift Sam into his car seat.

  ‘Is dis de twain side?’ he asks, ensuring that he’ll be able to see the train tracks (and a train if possible).

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  ‘But you’re getting the mummy side and the train side,’ whines Chloe.

  I ignore them and climb into the front.

  ‘Which would you like best, the mum or the train?’ Chloe asks Sam.

  ‘De twain.’

  ‘I’d like the mum,’ says Chloe. ‘Because I don’t like trains.’

  Kids – the ultimate confidence booster.

  ‘Chloe, you’ll get the mum on the way back,’ I say.

  I start the car. It lurches forward.

  ‘Chloe! I told you not to touch the controls!’

  ‘The keys weren’t in.’

  ‘Regardless of the keys, never touch the controls.’ I proceed to turn off the fan, headlights, hazard warning lights, blaring radio and window-wipers.

  Finally, I check the rear-view mirror. Breda is waving frantically and running up to the car.

  What now?

  I roll down the window. She smiles at me then reaches up over my head.

  ‘Your bag,’ she says, retrieving it from the roof.

  ‘God. Thanks, Breda. You’re a saviour.’ I feel guilty for my earlier thoughts.

  ‘Everything OK? You look a bit distracted.’

  OK, that’s got rid of the guilt.

  ‘Grand, thanks. Your garden’s looking great.’ Now get back to it.

  ‘A lot of hard work went into it,’ she says proudly.

  ‘Won’t keep you. Thanks again.’ I smile and start to pull out.

  She stands watching us go as though she’s outside her own home waving visitors off.

  ‘We will, we will wok you. We will, we will wok you,’ Sam shouts from the back. He has learned to sing and wants the world to know. Repetition is all part of the charm. His eclectic mix of favourites includes, ‘Runaway Train’ (of course), ‘Hall of Fame’ and, sadly, ‘We Will Rock You’.

  Chloe joins in.

  It’s not pretty.

  I turn on the radio rather than stifle artistic expression by requesting silence.

  Mum looks at me questioningly, no doubt wondering why her child-minding services have been called upon again. I can’t tell her. Not now. Not yet. Her marriage was her life. And I’ve failed at mine.

  I sit in the psychologist’s office feeling like I’ve travelled back in time. The colour scheme is orange and brown. The strip of fluorescent lighting overhead harbours an assortment of dead insects. I can hear a faint buzzing but can’t track it down. The walls are dreary, carpets drearier, curtains dreariest. I’m not hopeful.

  ‘And what ages are the children?’ the man who looks like Mr Bean asks after I’ve explained our situation.

  ‘Two-and-a-half and four-and-a-half,’ I say, in case the halves make a difference.

  ‘And how much
do they know?’

  ‘Nothing. Yet.’

  ‘How much do you think they’ll understand?’

  ‘You’d be surprised how clever Chloe is.’

  He nods. ‘And what do you think she would be comfortable hearing?’

  ‘None of it. But clearly he’s gone so I have to say something.’

  He nods but fails to volunteer.

  ‘You’re the expert,’ I prompt.

  ‘Well, in the short-term, the best you can do for the children is provide stability and certainty. For example, they need to know when they’ll see their dad next. After that, they need to know how often they’ll see him. It would be good to be able to reassure them about that.’

  ‘But I don’t know if he wants to see them. Or if I want him to.’

  ‘You think he mightn’t want to see them?’ He looks surprised.

  ‘He’s shown no interest in them lately.’

  He eyeballs me.

  ‘OK, I suppose he’d want to see them,’ I admit.

  ‘And what about you? Would you be happy for them never to see their father again?’

  ‘Yes. No. I don’t know. I don’t want to have to face him. But I know they need to see him.’

  He nods. ‘How do you think that might work, them seeing him?’

  What am I paying this guy for? ‘I don’t know. I’m getting a lawyer. I presume they’ll advise about custody, visitation rights… separation, divorce.’ It seems so much. I catch my breath.

  ‘There is the legal option, yes.’

  ‘You don’t sound so sure.’

  ‘It’s not for everyone. Do you love Ian?’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Before this.’

  ‘Yes. I did.’

  ‘Do you think that this has changed him as a person?’

  ‘This isn’t about him. It’s about the kids. I just want to know what’s best for Sam and Chloe. That’s all. That’s it. We’re going to get through this. We’re going to stay strong – and survive this.’

  He waits. And waits. Finally: ‘And you’re sure you want to walk away from your marriage?’

  ‘Sorry. He’s the one who walked away.’

  ‘You asked him to leave.’