‘I’ve got to go,’ I say. ‘We’re heading out in a minute.’
I know all he hears in that sentence is the ‘we’, but that’s okay.
‘See you tomorrow,’ he says. ‘I’ll text you the details when I’ve spoken to everyone.’
‘Okay, bye.’ I hang up the phone and stare at it. Adam is going to New York. To live. In New York.
‘We should go soon if you have to be in work by one?’ Jon speaks without looking up from the chair he has moved to. He’s right. I have to cover for Steph at the office this afternoon and I’d really rather not. And, although I’ve made the decision to leave the agency to devote all my time to songwriting, I’m torn. I will really miss Giles and the crew. I pull my open laptop towards me and open my mailbox. In the ‘drafts’, the email that I’ve written resigning from the company is sitting waiting to be sent. My forefinger hovers for just a few moments before I lower it and press send … Adam. Is going. To New York.
‘Right,’ I tell Jon. ‘Just let me get my jacket.’ I run up the stairs, stop at the top, rub the left-hand side of my chest. Adam is going to New York. Not Fulham. New York. It’s a little bit further away. I exhale slowly. And it’s the right thing. It’s the right thing for him. I look down to the hall over the banisters. Jon smiles up at me. It’s the right thing for everyone.
Guido’s, an Italian restaurant in Weybridge, is where we have had many a happy family meal. For this reason, I’d rather be somewhere else. I’d rather Adam had chosen another restaurant, one where maybe we could create new memories. The last time I was here was months ago with Meg, just after Adam left, and I feel the past wrap itself around me like an old cardigan as soon as I enter.
I’m last to arrive. I kiss everyone on the cheek and take my seat between Meg and Mum at the circular table. Opposite us, Karen and Ben sit almost clamped to each other. They have the look of love and fear combined that is present in all pregnant couples. Adam is sitting beside Meg, who has Jack on her other side. He’s talking to Ben as Meg and Adam chat animatedly about shopping trips and having somewhere to stay in New York. She has even mentioned she may take a master’s degree there.
My mother rests a hand on my leg, squeezes it. ‘Keep it together,’ she whispers, and I give a silent nod, trying not to think of losing Meg to the Big Apple.
There is a lot of conversation around the table tonight, not much of it coming from me. Mum tells us she is starting a new course in September, a foundation degree in counselling. Adam catches my eye and we both start to laugh.
‘Now, Sybil?’ He has never called my mum ‘Mum’, despite her requests over the years for him to do so. ‘Now, you do the counselling?’
The joke is almost lost on her, but not quite. ‘Like you’d have listened to me, either of you, as a mother or a counsellor … You may laugh, but I’d like to make a difference.’
‘You make a difference to me, Mum.’ I smile at her.
‘And me, Nan.’
‘And me, Sybil,’ Adam admits. ‘To be fair, even when I deserved shooting, you never did. So thank you.’ Adam raises his glass in her direction. Mum smiles, a little embarrassed, then changes the subject and asks Karen if she has stopped throwing up yet, just as my spaghetti alla puttanesca arrives.
Garlic bread, bruschetta, three flavours of spaghetti fill the centre of the table, yet Karen picks at a small wheat cracker from a box in her bag.
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I don’t trust myself to eat.’
‘It’ll pass,’ I tell her. ‘Like most things in life, the discomfort is temporary.’
‘That’s ironic, you saying that, sitting here,’ she says.
‘I know.’
Adam is filling my glass and looking at me. It’s sweet, a loving glance; one that says he’d do anything for me. In a strange way he is, he’s moving away … I smile back, excuse myself for a moment to visit the loo.
The Ladies at Guido’s is tiny. It has two loo cubicles and one shared sink area. When I enter, I see another woman at the sink and automatically stand back to let her leave the room. As she turns, her face breaks into a wide grin. ‘Beth! I thought it was you but wasn’t sure. Haven’t got my glasses on.’
Caroline looks gorgeous, dressed in a slinky black jersey all-in-one outfit.
‘Don’t worry,’ she says. ‘I wouldn’t have greeted you outside, but in here?’ She gestures to the loo’s surroundings. ‘How are you? How are things?’
‘Good.’ I nod. ‘It’s nice to see you.’
‘I have to confess I’ve been following you on Twitter. Your song … I’m thrilled for you. You finally gagged that saboteur, eh?’
‘Oh, she tosses the gag off every now and then, but I think I have her measure.’
I can’t help thinking about the first time Caroline and I met. I was betrayed, panicked and afraid.
‘And you?’ she asks, tentatively.
‘I’m better, much better,’ I tell her. ‘I think I’ve found Beth again.’
‘I’m glad,’ she smiles. ‘And—’
‘Adam’s outside, with the rest of the family.’
She’s nodding, her eyes careful not to judge what that may or may not mean. I think about what I’ve just said. He is the father of my only child and my first love. He is family, always will be.
‘We’re not together,’ I tell her. ‘A lot has happened, too much to come back from really. But we’re okay with it, both of us moving on. I’ve met a new man.’
‘You have?’ Caroline looks as if she’s about to do a happy dance. ‘I’m pleased for you.’
‘And Adam, Adam is moving to the States this week. New York.’
Her eyebrows go north but she says nothing. We swap a few more facts, a few more niceties. She tells me her door is always open and she leaves. I follow her out, back to the table. Taking my seat, I realize that I have forgotten to have a pee. But I also realize that I feel good, weightless. I have a new man in my life. I have a lovely family that, some day, he may be a part of. Jon may join this round table group along with Karen and Ben’s baby sometime soon. In the meantime, I’m happy for Adam to go. The reality is that Jon and I have a chance to grow if he’s not around. We have a chance to see if there is something real without him looking on.
And Adam. He will miss us, but he’ll survive and he won’t be alone for long. Survival is in every strand of his DNA, but being on his own is not. I’m guessing it won’t be very long before I’m told from the States, ‘There’s this woman and …’
Epilogue
The walk from the apartment on East 77th Street to Midtown West 53rd only takes about twenty-five minutes, but I hail a cab. The humid heat of mid-July is stifling and a cab ride means I arrive without my shirt stuck to me. Five minutes of midtown traffic later, I enter through the glass doors of the Museum of Modern Art and make my way up to the Monet exhibition, with the three-panelled oil-on-canvas displays. I sit on the middle bench. It’s the one I feel affords the best view of all three canvases at once. The bench can seat three or four people, and there have been times when I’ve had to share it, when someone else comes into the room and decides that yes, the best view really is from here. They sit next to me and I try not to resent them being here. Here in my space that, despite it being memorialized in film, I call my own.
Today, I’m alone. I’m happy to drink in the quiet. I remove my mobile from my jacket pocket, thumb her number and wait. I’ve taken to calling her from here at the same time every third Saturday, 11.30 New York time, 16.30 GMT. She doesn’t, of course, know where I call her from.
She answers with a happy, ‘Hi.’ She’s out of breath, like she’s been running. We chat, about Meg, about work, about her upcoming trip to LA. I joke that since we’ll be on the same landmass, maybe we should try and meet up. She laughs it off, tells me it would be easier for me to come back to London for a visit. I don’t push it, since I already know she’s taking Jon to LA with her. The gospel according to Meg …
She asks me if I’ve seen the movie yet.
I tell her yes, of course. I don’t tell her I’ve seen it twice. As I’m talking, my eyes are glued to the lily pads. I swear they’re moving in the gentle sway of Monet’s pond. I swear that in the colours of the picture, the greens, the blues, the lilac hues, I somehow see her face.
She’s laughing at something, brings me back to the moment, and I realize she’s talking about Sybil, who has finally started her counselling course. Beth tells me she’s driving her mad with her own brand of analysis. I can’t help smiling – I love the sound of Beth’s laugh. It’s something I miss terribly.
Someone comes to sit beside me, almost hovers on the edge of the bench, like he’s sensitive to personal space. An older man, he removes a small notebook and pen from a linen jacket. My cue to look at my watch and leave. We have been talking for over fifteen minutes and now I’m late. I make my way to Terrace 5, hoping there’ll be an air-conditioned table free inside, rather than outside, where I would probably shrivel in today’s heat. Beth is still in full flow telling me Karen, now six months pregnant, is ‘as big as a house’ and Ben is walking around like the cat that got the cream.
I enter the restaurant and immediately she waves at me. I stop walking, wave back, and hold five fingers up so she knows I’ll still be a few minutes.
‘How are you anyway?’ Beth asks. ‘Come on, you’ve been months over there and I’ve never pried before. What’s happening?’
I know she’s asking if I’m alone, if there’s anyone in my life.
‘Funny you should ask,’ I say to Beth. ‘There is this woman …’
Acknowledgements
This book is now a real thing; something that I can hold in my hand, with pages and a spine I can run my finger along and my name on the front and … It is only real because I’ve been helped along the way by so many people and a lot of good fortune.
I have to thank my family, which firstly means my six mad siblings, and all my in-laws. You are, probably without exception, a little bit bonkers and I love you all. A special thanks to Annie, who has listened while I doubted and read more than a few versions of YM&OP. To my mother, thank you for sending me a book in the post years ago with a note attached saying, ‘You could do this, you know.’ You were right, Mum, and thank you for always having faith. To my Dad, alas no longer here with us, thank you for the writer’s DNA. I hold your handwritten ‘scribbles’ dear to me and am sorry that you were always a frustrated writer in a corporate world. I promise to try and live the dream for you.
To my friends – where would I be without you? I’ve been blessed over the years with many true, original, loyal and funny friends. Too many to mention here individually, but you know who you are, whether I’ve shared food and wine or tears or all three with you. A big thank you to you all, especially Mary and Steph, always there …
My world now has a wealth of writer friends that years ago I would never have dreamed possible. A big hello and thank you to all my friends on Twitter and Facebook. God, how I love procrastinating with you all! Long live the internet! When I first started writing, years ago, I joined an online forum (www.writewords.org.uk) filled with lots of other hopeful novices like me, which provides an environment where writers of all levels could share their work for critique. There, I met so many lovely people who, despite my husband’s initial concerns, did not turn out to be ‘dribbling weirdos’ but lovely, lovely people who to this day are firm friends. Thank you to anyone I met along the way there, like Jacqui C Ward (brilliant beta reader, and so on the button with her critique and ideas), Clodagh Murphy, Essie Fox and Caroline Green. A big “Yay”, as she would say, is sent to Keris Stainton who took a group of us to our own forum, ‘We Should Be Writing’. I’m grateful to you all, girls.
Huge cries of emotional, heartfelt thanks go to writer pals Claire Allan and Anstey Spraggan. Claire, you have been a mentor and friend. You were the first one to say, “You can write, girl”, and you’ve been the one to kick my sorry ass when I was ready to give up SO many times. You have always encouraged and believed and for that I’m just so enormously grateful. An accomplished writer, working journalist and Mammy to two – I don’t know how you do it and am in awe … Anstey, what fun-filled, fear-filled and nerve-wracking times we’ve shared! Racing each other to finish novels, critiquing and encouraging each other along the way. Thank you, friend, for being there every step of the way and for introducing me to the mad Moniack Mhor writers. Time with you and the ‘Maniacks’ has helped me learn so much and not just how to drink wine … Thank you guys and gals.
Anyone who has struggled to have a novel published will know it’s almost impossible to tread the traditional route without an agent. And mine is one in a million. Maddy, you’re more than an agent. You’ve become a friend and someone I hope to always have in my life. Your championing of my writing and hard work on my behalf has fuelled my confidence and together we can make great things happen. Thank you so much to you, and Cara too, for everything you do.
To the editorial team and everyone else behind the scenes who made this book happen at HarperCollins, a huge thank you. A special thanks to Kim Young – since that first meeting we had, I’ve known that you’re in my corner – and to Claire Bord, Penny Isaac and Charlotte Brabbin who, between them all, helped YM&OP become the book it is today. Thank you for guiding this sometimes confused author through the process.
And finally, to my own family. Kate and Jane, you are my inspiration. Both now wonderful young women, there’s not a day that goes by where I’m not grateful for the fact that, somehow, you chose me to be your Mummy. I love you both all the way to the moon and back and beyond and back again. Thanks to Chris and to our darling Esme, who makes me laugh and want to squidge her tight every single day.
And Aidan. My man. My soul-mate. This book could never have happened without your incredible, never-ending faith, love and support. Thank you, I love you forever.
About the Author
Fionnuala Kearney lives in Ascot with her husband. They have two grown-up daughters (both with deliberately simple, monosyllabic names). One of seven children, Fionnuala likes to write about the nuances and subtle layers of human relationships, peeling them away to see what’s really going on beneath. You, Me and Other People is her first novel.
About the Publisher
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
http://www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON, M4W, 1A8, Canada
http://www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers (New Zealand) Limited
P.O. Box 1
Auckland, New Zealand
http://www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London,SE1 9GF
http://www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
http://www.harpercollins.com
You, Me and Other People Page 33
