All We Have Lost

by Alexander, Aimee

  ‘It’s amazing,’ I say.

  ‘He’s going to be huge. You’ll join me for lunch?’

  ‘It’s lunch-time already?’ I check my watch. ‘Wow.’

  ‘You’re going to have to eat anyway. May as well join a lonely old man.’

  ‘Less of the “old”.’ And I hope he’s not lonely. Because Fonsie is simply adorable.

  We lunch together in a small restaurant a few doors up from the gallery.

  ‘I’m looking for a curator,’ he says, peering up over the top of his menu.

  ‘Fonsie, don’t. No one has your taste. Seriously. Get a secretary or an accountant or something to handle the business side of things if you’re too busy.’

  ‘I think I’ll have the soup. It’s good here. What are you going for?’

  ‘Probably the Caesar salad,’ I say distractedly. ‘Fonsie don’t let anyone else choose the art.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘You’ve found someone? Have you actually offered the job yet? Because it’s not too late…’

  He opens out his napkin and places it on his lap.

  The waitress takes our order.

  ‘So who is this guy?’ I ask with a growing sense of foreboding.

  ‘What makes you think it’s a guy? Women have much better taste in art. Of course homosexuals have a wonderful eye too.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘You know her.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Let me give you a hint. Young, vivacious, energetic, enthusiastic…’

  ‘Amy Daly?’

  ‘No. She’s passionate about art, has exquisite taste, a keen commercial mind…’

  ‘Jane O’Sullivan?’

  ‘That egomaniac?’

  I laugh. ‘Well then, I don’t know. You’ve got me.’

  ‘She recently packed in a lucrative PR business to write a novel…’

  ‘Oh my God. You’re offering me a job?’

  ‘And she’s so sharp. Kim, you should see your face.’

  ‘Would you blame me? You’ve just offered me a job that I’ve no experience whatsoever for. Besides which, my life is a shambles.’

  ‘Did I just say exquisite taste in art and a keen commercial mind?’

  ‘No art degree, though.’

  ‘A business is a business. And Kim, darling, you’ve run a business.’

  ‘But PR…’

  ‘I can’t imagine anything more relevant, getting publicity for Orange in all the right places, organizing events...’

  I stare at him.

  ‘You know, usually it’s up to the interviewee to persuade the interviewer. Is this some sort of reverse psychology you’re using on me?’ He smiles.

  ‘Fonsie, I couldn’t.’

  ‘I don’t see why not. The children are about to go back to school, aren’t they?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure it’s the right time.’

  ‘There’s never a right time,’ he says, refilling my glass.

  ‘Fonsie, there’s a lot of stuff going on in my life.’ I look down at the remnants of my Caesar salad and poke an innocent crouton.

  ‘All right. I won’t force you. But think about it. I can wait. I want the right person. And I knew who that was the minute she walked through my door this morning. It’s fate. And only fools argue with fate. Chin-chin.’ He raises his glass.

  I smile and clink it. I feel the unfamiliar warm glow that comes with being appreciated.

  And then, he has to get back.

  ‘Take your time to think about it, Kim. When you’re ready, let me know. I can wait six months at least. If you think you’ll be in a better position then to take the job, then great.’

  ‘I’ll think about it over the weekend and give you an answer on Monday. And Fonsie? Thank you.’

  He winks. ‘Don’t thank me until you’ve taken the job.’

  At the sink in the hairdresser’s, feeling the warm water flow over my scalp, I realise that even though I’ve forgotten Kim Waters, there are people who haven’t. And that makes my tired, flattened heart swell just a little bit.

  ‘Let me do something special today,’ Rita says.

  ‘Knock yourself out,’ is a lethal instruction to a hairdresser but suddenly I’m feeling reckless.

  I close my eyes and imagine that there are no obstacles to Fonsie’s offer. I imagine days spent surrounded by what I love, getting to choose what’s hung, meeting the artists, giving new talent a break. It’s impossible but a girl can dream.

  I do a tour of the gallery in my mind, remembering each painting. I imagine hanging them differently and adding a few more of that new artist. I’m sorry I never asked Fonsie to show me his full portfolio. I will – next time.

  ‘Right, Kim, the moment you’ve been waiting for.’

  I open my eyes, slow to leave this perfect world.

  Wow. I turn my head from side to side. It’s really good. Maybe even a miracle. Young. Cheeky. A little like pre-Ian Kim.

  Passing a flower shop, on impulse, I go in. I’m worth a bunch of lilies. And a bouquet of roses.

  I arrive home five minutes before they do.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ Sam and Chloe call, rushing past to get to the TV.

  He stands at the door.

  I hold it.

  ‘You look great, Kim,’ he says.

  ‘I do, don’t I?’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’

  ‘Yeah, actually.’

  ‘Good.’ He nods. ‘Good.’

  ‘I was even offered a job.’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘Seriously? What kind?’

  ‘Curator.’ Let this lady out for a day and see what happens.

  ‘Of an art gallery?’

  I nod.

  ‘Wow. I presume you’re going to take it?’

  ‘I’m considering it. Anyway I better get the kids to bed.’

  ‘What about tomorrow?’

  I look into his eyes. ‘You’re not busy?’ And we all know what ‘busy’ is a code for.

  ‘No,’ he says firmly. I catch him eyeing the roses. It would never occur to him that I might have bought them for myself. Because I never would have. That was my problem. He looks back at me. ‘I could bring them swimming?’

  How I wish he’d never stopped. I shrug. ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll see you at about twenty-to-ten, then?’

  I nod. And close the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ‘Look, Chloe, a fish!’ exclaims Sam, clenching his fists and jumping up and down. ‘A fish, look, look! It’s owange!’

  I wondered how long it would take them to notice the surprise I got them, the little distraction.

  ‘Wait – let me see.’ On her tiptoes, Chloe peers up at the bowl on the worktop.

  ‘Sit at the table and I’ll bring him over.’

  Chloe runs to the table. Sam continues to stare at the bowl, following me as though in a trance as I carry it to the table.

  ‘Is it poisonous?’ Chloe asks as I sit Sam into his seat.

  ‘No,’ I reassure.

  ‘Aw,’ Sam says.

  ‘Why didn’t you get a poisonous one?’ Chloe asks on his behalf.

  ‘They don’t sell them.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘People don’t want to be killed when they’re changing the water.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get a piranha?’

  ‘Look, I got this little guy because he’d looked lonely. I thought we could be his friends.’

  They peer into the bowl. ‘OooKay,’ they both say together.

  ‘But I’ll feed him,’ rushes Chloe.

  ‘No, I feed him.’

  ‘No fighting or he goes back to the shop. You can take it in turns. What are you going to call him?’

  ‘Someting scaywee,’ says Sam.

  ‘How about Boo?’ I suggest.

  ‘Boo!’ they shout.

  ‘Careful. Don’t frighten him. He’s very delicate.’

  ‘What’s delicate?’ />
  ‘Little things frighten him. And when he gets frightened he might have a heart attack or something.’

  ‘What’s a hawt attack?’

  I explain (somehow) then tell them it’s time for bed. Negotiations begin immediately. They end with Sam, Chloe and Boo sleeping in the same room so that Boo won’t get lonely and have a heart attack.

  ‘So where did you go today?’ I ask, tucking them into the same bed.

  ‘Tara, Mum,’ says Chloe.

  No. He’s supposed to bring them somewhere generic like the zoo. Or McDonald’s. Not somewhere special to us – all of us.

  Sam sits up. ‘Yeah and we fed da hawse. And we wan wit da sheep.’ Which means he ran after the sheep. ‘And we saw’d dogs chasing a wabbit. We’d gweat fun.’

  ‘Did you have a picnic?’ Please say no.

  He nods enthusiastically.

  Apparently, they had gherkins and pickles and salami and olives and rice cakes. Ian remembered everything – all their favourites.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, forgetting to hide my disappointment.

  ‘We missed you, Mum,’ Chloe says, sitting up.

  ‘I missed you too, sweetie.’ My little sensitive soul.

  ‘Why didn’t you come?’

  ‘I just had a few things to do. Do you like my hair?’

  She nods. ‘Will you come the next time?’

  ‘We’ll see, honey.’ I kiss them both on the forehead. ‘Now, go to sleep.’

  The house is quiet. I’m restless. I look out at the jungle that is the garden and suddenly I know what to do.

  I fly around like a mad thing ripping up, cutting, shredding, snapping. I stuff the results of my blitz into large sacks. Then, I stand observing the result. It’s a big improvement. But better than that, I am calm.

  I lie down in the grass and gaze up at a sky that is fighting to hold its colour after the sun has left. Swallows scoot and dart through the air, reminding me of Egypt. We couldn’t get enough of each other; it seemed a physical impossibility. In seven years, he was always there, could always cheer me up, make me laugh; he always wanted to. Now a wind blows through me. I am hollow.

  Bats and stars join the swallows. I watch them until I grow cold.

  I go inside.

  Hoodie and socks do little to warm me. And though it’s still August, I light a fire. I flick on the lamps and curl up on the couch. A dog would be nice.

  I gaze at the paintings I’ve collected over the years, remembering the time I bought each one, where I was, whether I had to save up, borrow or beg, who I was with, if anyone, what I was working at or studying. Each one has its own story. My eyes fall on the one Ian and I bought in Piazza Navona after a particularly liquid lunch. He saw us coming, the artist – giggling and walking a crooked line, in love and in Rome. The painting reminded us of how we’d met – sailing. We couldn’t leave it behind.

  And I can’t stop remembering. I am back to the day we met. On an introduction to sailing course, we were teamed up to right a capsized boat. Into the freezing water we were tipped as the dingy turned on its side. As we struggled to get it back up, it ‘turned turtle’, flipping over completely. It was Ian who started laughing first. Looking at each other only made us worse. An instructor had to jump in to help us. Success came as our lips turned blue. Sitting in the training boat watching the next couple have a go, the laughter continued. Then, as if by magic, we stopped and looked at each other, knowing that, from that moment on, we would never be apart. We had something. We really had. Never thought it would be so easy to lose.

  He comes on time. Takes them swimming. Returns on time. In the afternoon, I try to outdo him by bringing them to a movie. This is what our family has become.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Does Dad sleep in work?’ asks Chloe at bedtime.

  It would be so easy to lie. But my childhood was one.

  ‘Well, Dad’s staying in a hotel at the moment…for a little while.’

  She sits up, wide-eyed. ‘Does it have a pool? Can I stay too?’

  ‘No, sweetheart.’ I tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

  ‘Oh.’ She looks down and starts fiddling with the sleeve of her pyjamas. ‘Will his holiday be over soon?’

  I can answer this. ‘Well, hon…’ I press her nose gently. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’ Is that it? We’ll see? I try again. ‘But the good thing is, you’re seeing your dad so much now, more than you did when he was sleeping here. Isn’t that great?’

  She throws me a thunderous look. ‘He’s Dad. Don’t call him “your dad”.’

  ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Of course he’s Dad. And you do lots of great things with him now, don’t you?’

  ‘But why don’t you come with us?’

  ‘Well, I can get some jobs done.’

  ‘I can help with the jobs,’ she says hopefully.

  Heart breaking here. ‘Thanks, sweetie. We’ll see.’

  Her thumb slips into her mouth. A little frown appears. Something else is brewing. Now would be a good time to bolt.

  ‘You still love Dad, don’t you, Mum?’

  I look at her little face and see him in it, so much of him. It is like being forced to face a truth I’ve been denying myself. Of course I love him. It wouldn’t hurt so much if I didn’t.

  ‘Yes, Chloe. I still love your dad, I mean Dad.’ That doesn’t mean I don’t hate him too. Because I do.

  ‘And Dad loves you, Mum.’

  What can I say – no he doesn’t or he wouldn’t have done what he did? My alternative is, ‘I know sweetie. Come on, let’s snuggle.’

  I lie beside her until she sleeps.

  And that is how I end up back at the psychologist. I don’t know what else to do. And I have to do something.

  Weird thing is, I find myself talking about my parents. Specifically, The Deal.

  ‘How does that make you feel about your father?’ he asks so calmly – like he’s seen it all in here, in his 1970’s office.

  I shrug.

  He waits.

  ‘I don’t know. Like he was an illusion? And he made our lives one?’

  ‘Do you hate him for that?’

  I grimace. ‘Isn’t hate a bit strong?’

  ‘Are you angry with him?’

  ‘Yes, I’m angry. Of course, I’m angry. Especially at how he treated Mum.’

  ‘What about how he treated you?’

  I shrug. ‘You cheat on your wife, you cheat on your family.’

  ‘But you can’t hate a dead man, is that it?’

  ‘I’m just going to have to accept it, right? Otherwise everything Mum has sacrificed will have been for nothing.’

  ‘You’re allowed to feel, Kim. In fact, you should. It’s healthy.’

  ‘So, it’s OK to hate him?’ I ask doubtfully.

  ‘It’s OK to be honest with yourself. When someone we love dies, it’s natural to remember only the good in them. No one is all good.’

  That is when I realise: I made him a better father than any other. I canonised him.

  ‘I’ve a suggestion and I want you to think before you answer.’

  I look at him warily.

  ‘I’d like Ian to attend your next session.’

  I tense. ‘Why?’

  ‘To help you understand what happened to your marriage so you can move forward.’

  ‘He’ll make it my fault. And I’ve had too much of that. Anyway, it doesn’t matter why. He did what he did.’

  ‘Sometimes, to move forward, we have to look back.’

  ‘He wouldn’t come anyway.’

  ‘If he doesn’t want to, we’ll manage. But we’ll manage better and make more progress if he does. You deserve this, Kim. Why don’t you ask him, see if he’ll come?’

  I hesitate. ‘He’ll think I want us back together!’

  ‘Then be clear about that with him. Tell him why he’s coming – for you.’

  I sigh. ‘OK.’

  Later, Ian phones.

&nbs
p; ‘How are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Spectacular.’

  Awkward pause.

  ‘Kim, can I come over? There’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Ask now.’ He can’t just come over anytime he likes.

  He clears his throat. ‘Right. OK. Um. Chloe tells me next Tuesday is her first day at big school.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Would you mind if I came along? I’d love to be there. I could take the morning off.’

  ‘It would be an hour of your time. Not a morning.’

  ‘So it’s OK then?’

  ‘You know she’d love you there.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘It’s not my day.’

  ‘I know. Thanks, though. I appreciate it.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘I’m going to a psychologist. He thinks it’d be good for my “progress” for you to come to my next session. I told him it would be a waste of time…’

  ‘I’ll come.’ His voice sounds crumbly. ‘I wish I’d gone when you first suggested it.’

  ‘This is not to get back together. It’s so I can move forward. You need to be clear about that.’

  ‘I am. But I’d like a chance to say sorry. Officially.’

  ‘As long as you’re not expecting anything.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘It’s just for one session. Then I can get on with it on my own.’

  ‘OK. Thanks.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re thanking me.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ he tries to joke.

  I give him the date and time. ‘It’s OK if it doesn’t suit.’

  ‘It suits. It’s fine. I’ll see you then.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ian is in the waiting room when I arrive. He looks as nervous as I feel. I want to cry. For all we have lost.

  He stands. ‘Hey.’

  ‘Hey.’

  We sit at exactly the same time.

  He smiles.

  Mine is a reflex. I remind myself to be on my guard in future.

  Apart from us, the waiting room’s empty.

  I check my watch. ‘I usually don’t have to wait long.’

  ‘It’s fine. It’s good to get out of the office.’

  I think of her. And want to punch him.