Ted, an ex-colleague who was, in all honesty, more a competitor, is sitting opposite. We started around the same time and constantly kept an eye on each other, both with the same idea – keeping ahead. I guessed he must have been thrilled when I got out of the action. Especially as he got my position.
'Hi, Ted.'
'Jenny, how's it going?'
'Not bad. You?'
'Good. Good,' he says.
'That was a great piece you did on the tribunal yesterday.' It would have been better if his ego hadn't got in the way. It wasn't an opinion piece.
'Still reading us, then?' he asks.
'Still writing for the paper, Ted.'
'Yeah,' he says in a tone that implies freelancing isn't writing. Though it's the backbone of the paper, in recent years.
I look across at Brenda who writes movie reviews. We used to go to the cinema together. Until Great died. I must start again, now that I've Debbie.
But do I have Debbie? Can I risk meeting Simon Grace again?
Actually, no.
But Debbie's so sweet. And Charlie loves her.
'God, it's bedlam up there,' says Jack. 'If we weren't regulars, I'd still be there. Here you go, Jen. Slice of lemon to liven it up.'
'Cheers.'
He clinks my glass, holds his in the air for a sec, then gulps a great big mouthful of Guinness.
'Any news?' he asks, wiping foam from his upper lip.
'I don't think so. No, not really. Let's see...' And then I think of it – the one bit of exciting news I have. 'Charlie's started school.'
'Oh, good. School, yeah, great. He grew up fast, didn't he?'
You can tell this isn't his type of conversation.
I laugh. 'Jack, you're nodding off.'
'I am not.' He's indignant.
'Jack.'
'All right, you've got me. Kids aren't my specialty. Your page is great, though.'
'Thanks.' But I don't want to discuss work. I'll do it, fine, enjoy it even, but I don't want to talk about it. Boy, I've changed.
A hat zigzags above the crowds. It looks like a Phillip Treacy. And when I see who's wearing it, I know it must be. Jane Peters. Our fashion correspondent. What's she doing here? She must be 'like, so stressed out' to be away from her usual haunt, the Shelbourne bar. Her eyes zoom in on me. And suddenly it seems she has a destination, a purpose.
'Jenny,' she gushes. 'So good to see you. Excuse me, Jack. Can I just squeeze in there? Have to catch up with Jenny. You know how it is.'
Her eyelash batting is lost on him. But he does shift his stool a bit so she can get in. I widen my eyes at him; he knows how I feel about her.
'Sorry,' he mouths and makes a what-could-I-do face.
'Jenny. How are you?'
'Fine. Jane. And you?'
'Oh, super.'
I nod. I have nothing to say to this person. Nothing. Could I even list more than five designer labels?
Jane looks at me closely. And frowns. 'You look a little pale, sweetie.' I'm about to blame the lighting when she adds, 'Up all night with...what's his name...little...?'
'Charlie. And, no. He sleeps at night like most four-year-olds.'
'Sweet.' She smiles. Then frowns again. 'You sure you're not anaemic?'
I long for my apartment, the silence of it with Charlie asleep, the peace. My coffee maker. My snuggly quilt. The novel I've just bought, still in its paper bag. Like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, I want to click my heels and be back home.
'How's Dave?' she asks, though she knows we split up almost five years ago.
'I don't know.'
'Don't you stay in touch?'
'No.'
'You really screwed up that one, didn't you?'
I laugh. Because this has been coming since the minute she showed up. She always had a thing for Dave.
'He's really making a name for himself over there, isn't he?' she continues.
'I don't keep up.' For a long time, I did. Googled him way too often. Followed his career. Lurked on Twitter. I told myself he'd changed, become American, so different from the Dave I knew. And loved. Slowly, I got over him. Weird, though, how you can plan to spend the rest of your life with someone and then, just like that, they no longer figure in your future. Or present. One thing – that's all it took to blow our plans apart – plans that were so certain, solid, plans I never doubted. I hope he's happy, that he's found someone else, someone who won't go and mess things up.
I stick it out till half-ten, then give the new-babysitter excuse. Next time I go out, it will be to the cinema.
CHAPTER THREE
We're dawdling up the lane to school. Charlie's taking the puddle route, like I used to do as a kid. His navy uniform and starting-school haircut have conspired to remove the last remnants of baby. Gone are the innocent blond curls, snipped off in their prime, leaving darker, smoother hair. Grown-up hair. A mistake, I know. I don't need to be asked, 'What happened his hair?' But I am. Repeatedly.
Suddenly, Charlie breaks into a run, his bag banging up and down on his back.
'Dara, Dara, wait up!' When did he start talking like an American?
He turns a corner.
I quicken my step.
I catch up with him in the yard.
'Hurry up, Dara's gone in,' he says to me.
'OK, there's no rush,' I say, no idea who he's talking about but glad he has a friend already.
We go inside. I help him off with his bag and coat. The orange lining is still warm. I'm left holding the coat as he dashes over to hug his new buddy.
'Urgh. Go away,' says Dara. Big guy, must be five, razor-tight haircut.
I feel like telling him to go away.
'I just want a hug,' Charlie says to him, confused.
'No way. Hugs are for girls.'
'Oh.' The corners of Charlie's mouth turn down and I'm afraid he's going to cry. But no, he fights it off. That's my boy.
'Don't worry,' his teacher says, leaning towards me as though letting me in on a secret. 'He'll be fine.'
'Maybe I should have sent him to playschool first.' Toughen him up. But I don't want him tough.
'Not at all. He'll be fine. We'll see you later.' She says it like she wants me to leave.
Charlie looks like a little lone buoy, bobbing around in a sea of new faces. I want to take him with me.
I go over to him and whisper, 'Sweetie, if you ever feel like a hug, I'm your woman.'
'It's OK, Mum,' he says in a trying-to-be-brave voice.
'OK. Bye Charlie.'
I leave, trying to be equally brave, but failing. I walk back up the corridor in tears. I've always been able to protect him. At school, he's on his own.
'Don't worry. He'll be fine in a few weeks,' says a more seasoned mum.
'Thanks.' I force a smile and continue on. I think of Great. 'Look after him,' I whisper.
I was never religious but something happened when Great died, something that made me believe that maybe there was more, that maybe it doesn't just stop when our hearts do. When Great died, her room filled with the strongest smell of roses, though there were none. The chaplain turned to me.
'Was she a devotee of Saint Therese?'
'She loved her,' I said, surprised.
He nodded as if that explained everything.
'What?' I asked.
'This often happens when devotees of the Little Flower pass away.'
'The smell of roses?'
He nodded as if it were no big deal. To me it was. It was a sign, a message. She was telling me she'd still be around. Still looking out for us, Charlie and me.
It took months for the solicitors to sort out her affairs. They called me in, one morning, to sign some documents. I was putting the date beside my signature when I realised that it was Great's birthday. She'd left me the house – on her birthday. It wasn't the only shock. I didn't know it was her house to leave me. She used to say she rented the first floor. Turned out, she rented it to herself. Great was a landlord. Actually, given
the tenants (struggling artists and musicians) and the rents she charged (tiny), you could say she was a patron of the arts.
She wouldn't be impressed with the couple in the basement now. Madeleine, Swedish, works in a call centre. Her boyfriend, Tadhg, from Ballydehob, is an accountant with the same company. They have plans. They are saving. I feel guilty having broken the unwritten rule. It was not deliberate. I'm not landlord material. I can't double as a neighbour and some kind of rent collector so I hired an agency to handle it. It was they who picked Madeline and Tadhg, deeming them low-risk tenants. Great wasn't afraid of risk.
I hear her voice in my head.
'Don't worry,' she says. 'He'll be fine. I'm keeping an eye on him.'
I take a breath and hand him over to her.
I spend the morning interviewing people about sexually transmitted diseases and reassuring them that I won't be using their real names.
I have to stop myself from running up the lane when school's over.
And what's the first thing he says?
'Can I go to Dara's house?'
'I don't know, Charlie. We'd have to talk to his mum.' Who I sincerely hope we can't find.
'Hi. You must be Charlie's mum? I'm Mary,' says a smiling brunette standing next to us, still waiting for her child to come out. 'Dara's mum.'
'Oh, hi. How are you? I'm Jenny.' Crap.
'Dara never stops nagging me for Charlie to come over.'
'Oh,' I say, surprised.
With that, Dara comes bolting out the door. 'Hi, Mum. Did you talk to Charlie's mum?'
'I was just going to.' She looks at me meaningfully, eyebrows raised. 'He's got three big brothers who do nothing but give him a hard time. He'd love to have a friend of his own over.'
I hesitate, thinking of bigger Daras.
'Don't worry if you've something on...'
'Please, Mum, please. I'll be your bestest friend,' whines Charlie.
'I thought you were my best friend.'
'Please...'
'OK.'
'Today?'
Argh. I don't know these people.
'If it doesn't suit...' Mary starts to say.
'No, no, it's fine. If you're sure it's all right with you.'
'Absolutely. We'd love to have Charlie over. Phil, my husband, is off today so he'll be around to play with them a bit.'
She tells me where she lives and gives me her mobile. I give her mine and Charlie's car seat.
'I'll pick him up in an hour,' I say.
'Sure, they'll only be getting going at that stage.'
'Right then, two hours. It's his first time. He might get tired.'
I watch them walk off, Charlie chatting animatedly. He jumps every now and again, which he does when he gets excited. I take a deep breath. And go home alone.
I can't help it. I turn up early to collect him.
Mary asks me in.
In the sitting room, a grown man rolls around the floor with two boys, one of them mine. Yelps of laughter from all three.
'We're not ready, Mum,' shouts Charlie, jumping on Dara's father's back, roaring, 'I'm taking you down.'
I laugh.
'This is Phil,' says Mary.
Her husband waves from the floor just before a cushion hits the side of his head.
'Go, commando,' shouts, my son?
Dara spots me hovering. 'Have a cup of tea,' he suggests. An obvious delaying tactic.
I smile and look at Mary. 'Where did he learn that trick?'
'Where he learns everything – his brothers. Come on into the kitchen. We'll have a few minutes' peace.'
'You're sure you're not making dinner or anything?'
'I'll throw a pizza on in a minute, and that, I'm afraid, will be it. It's what they like and I'm tired of arguing.'
'You seem so calm.' The place is bedlam.
'With four boys, it's a practiced art form.'
I smile. 'It must be a doddle for you, Dara starting school.'
'It's actually a relief. He hates being the baby. Couldn't wait to get going. Charlie seems to be settling in well, too?'
'He seems to love it, all right. It's me I'm worried about,' I joke.
'It's not easy, letting go. God. With James, my eldest, I spent the first week in floods.'
'You did?' Phew.
'I was a complete eejit. Phil had a great laugh.'
We've reached it – that point in the conversation when I should automatically talk about Charlie's dad. So I offer that silent smile I've perfected so well. And nothing is said.
'You can't stop progress, though, can you? All you can do is make the most of your free time.' She shrugs.
I nod.
'You'll get used to it.' She smiles. 'I promise.'
Bedtime. Teeth, face and hands washed, Charlie lets me carry him to his room, though there's nothing wrong with his legs. His Winnie the Poo decor suddenly seems too young for a boy who solemnly transferred his lifelong companion, Buzz Lightyear, from his home on the bed to the cold, lonely, toy box, as soon as he learnt (from Dara) that 'dolls' were 'for babies.'
'Did you have a nice time at Dara's?' I ask, after our story but before our goodnight hug.
'The best.'
'What did you do?'
'Played the best games in the world.'
'Did you play with Dara's brothers?'
'No. Mostly his dad. He's mad.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. He played lots of crazy games.'
'It's good you had fun.'
'Mum?'
'Yes, Charlie?'
'Why don't I have a dad?'
I've had years to prepare for this and I'm still not ready. Try honesty, Jenny. I take a breath.
'You do have a dad, Charlie.'
'Well, where is he?'
'I'm not sure, exactly.'
'Why? Why doesn't he live here with us?'
'He's got another life, sweetheart.'
'But I want a dad.'
'I know, Charlie.'
'Can't we ring him and ask him to come for a little while?'
'It's not that easy, sweetie.'
'Why not?'
'Well, he's a very busy man.'
'Doesn't he have any time to play?'
God.
'Sweetie, he mightn't even be in Ireland. I don't know exactly where he is at the moment. I'm sorry. But you know what? Maybe we can ask Dara round next week. How does that sound?'
'OK, I suppose.' His head is down and he's picking at a scab on his knee.
'Come here.' I sit him up on my lap. 'I think I feel a hug coming on.'
'Don't like hugs.'
Pause to Rewind is available on:
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you, Nicola Russell, you star, for inspiring me to take the first steps on this adventure. Thank you and hugs to the very special Karen and Liam Lorenzo for my cover; I saw that photo and fell in love with it. Huge thanks to Sandy Brugh, Diane Galburt, Bev Morris, Laura Tyrrell and Nikki Weijdom for your eagle eyes and willingness to help. Massive thanks to everyone who advised me on titles. This has been my most collaborative work; and I love that.
Big thanks and appreciation to these lovely writers: Colette Caddle, Celia Carlisle, Sally Clements, Helena Close, Judi Curtin, Catherine Daly, Claire Dowling, Maria Duffy, Suzy Duffy, Catherine Dunne, Laura Elliot, Eleanor Fitzsimons, Hazel Gaynor, Jean Grainger, Niamh Greene, Claire Hennessy, Michelle Jackson, Sheena Lambert, Hazel Larkin, Ruth Long, Zoe Miller, Clodagh Murphy, Morag Prunty, Tali Roland, Catherine Ryan Howard, Louise Ryan McCarthy, Barbara Scully, Mel Sherratt, Niamh O’Connor, Deirdre Maria Sullivan, Jane Travers and Ciara Winkleman for their advice, support and encouragement.
Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review my books, highlight them on social media and recommend them to friends. Hugely appreciate your support. Particular thanks to Frank Burns, Margaret Bonass Madden, Alison Cain, Geraldine Fin
negan Gaul, Charles Hale, Valerie Judge, John Ivory, Louise Kelly, Samantha Mackey, Michelle Moloney King, Patricia Kieran, Liz Magee, Monica Leal Arcas, Helen Shaw and Claire Rudd.
Thanks to my family, as always, for being supportive, brutal and humorous at the same time.
Above all, thank you to my readers. Without you, there would be no books.
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All We Have Lost Page 23
