by Marian Keyes
‘You’ve always been nice to me, really nice, like you’d do anything I asked.’
‘I love you.’
‘I’ve grown to depend on you and now I hate myself a bit for it. But what was I meant to do, Hugh?’ My voice is wobbling. ‘We have to trust people. We can’t go through life entirely self-contained.’ There’s something I have to ask. ‘Is this my fault? Have I done … something?’
He shakes his head. ‘It’s nothing to do with anyone else. It’s all to do with me.’
This is a salve, kind of, and tears of relief flood my eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, with fierce sincerity. ‘I hate myself for hurting you.’
For a moment my tears threaten to spill over, then I place my fingertips on his chest and push him on to the couch. I clamber on to his lap, straddling him, and cup his face in my hands, my fingertips rasping against his beard, and kiss him passionately. I push up his T-shirt and run the palms of my hands over his chest. These last five days he even smells different – sexy, alien, like I don’t know him.
‘The girls?’ he protests weakly.
‘Out.’ Well, Kiara is babysitting Finn, Pip and Kit. God knows where Neeve is, and Sofie could arrive at any time, but it doesn’t matter. I unbutton his jeans and slide myself down to lick the twitching tip of his erection. Slowly I guide it out, then begin to pull off his jeans.
‘You’re sure it’s safe?’ he asks urgently.
‘Sure.’
He stands up and whips off the rest of his clothes. I throw the cushions on to the rug and pull him down to me. With fumbling hands we unbutton my dress and take off my pants.
It’s been years since we’ve done it anywhere except a bed, but since Sunday night we’ve been doing it all over the house – in the shower, in the bath, even on the draining board by the kitchen sink because I keep seeing people doing it there in Danish TV series. (And I have to tell you it’s nothing like as sexy as it looks on the telly – the aluminium was cold against my bum and it buckled and made a womp-womp noise with each thrust. It was so loud and bouncy that I was actually afraid there would be a permanent dent. It’s only three years since we got the kitchen done. It’s been such a pleasure to have one room in the house that isn’t gone to shit that as I womp-womped up and down on the draining board my biggest emotion was anxiety.)
Taking charge, I lay Hugh on the cushions and insist on changing positions every minute or so. It’s like a showcase – see all that Amy can offer! I even – clearly with Alastair fresh in my mind – try the reverse cowgirl but can’t get the angle right. I practically bend Hugh’s erection in half and it still won’t go in. ‘Stop,’ he says gently. ‘You’re going to break it.’
Grimly I keep trying.
‘Come here.’ He takes me in his arms and we fall into one of our tried-and-tested routines. We’ve already had sex today – this morning before work. (And last night. And yesterday morning. And the night before.)
But depression overtakes me. This is joyless. Hugh tries a couple of things that usually work but I speed things up because now I just want it to be over. Eventually he comes, and in the silence that follows, he pushes himself up on his elbow and looks into my eyes. ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I will come back.’
‘Will you always love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say it.’
‘I’ll always love you.’
‘Again.’
‘I’ll always love you.’
But, no matter how often he says it, I can’t feel safe.
7
Twenty-two years ago
I pressed my back against the door, to stop him leaving. ‘Please!’ I was crying so hard I could barely see. ‘Don’t.’
He took my shoulders, trying to move me from his path. I put my hands on his chest and shoved hard. ‘You can’t go! You can’t. You have to stay.’
He made another attempt to move me. He didn’t want to use force, but he was determined, and he managed to shift me a couple of inches. I fought back, determined to keep barricading the door.
‘No.’ I was hoarse from crying. ‘Please.’
He was much stronger than me, but I was much stronger than me too. We grappled for a few horrible seconds, he pushed and I pushed back, but somehow there was a gap, he’d turned the lock and the door was open. ‘You’ll be okay,’ he muttered, and slipped out.
I ran after him into the corridor and to the stairwell. He raced down the stairs and I would have followed him, except back in the flat baby Neeve was wailing. I hesitated for a moment, torn between the two people I loved most in the world, and I made my choice.
Simply remembering it, nearly twenty-two years later, still distresses me. It was the worst night of my life.
It had started at Leeds-Bradford airport. Myself and four-month-old Neeve were flying to Dublin for Christmas. Richie had a party with the club’s sponsors; he’d be travelling a day later.
It was 23 December and the airport was, unsurprisingly, utter mayhem. Everything was delayed, including my flight. The time for boarding came and went, and eventually there was an announcement offering a voucher to anyone who’d fly tomorrow morning instead. Clearly the flight was madly overbooked, but because Neeve was so little I’d thought we’d get priority. But Frequent Flyers got first dibs and there were an awful lot of them.
‘I have a baby.’ I was on the verge of tears.
It did me no good and I was told to come back the following day.
Lugging Neeve in her chair into the flat, I heard noises from the bedroom – Richie must have left the television on before he went out. I put Neeve on the living-room floor and prepared to go back down four flights of stairs to haul up our suitcase, then decided to go to the bedroom instead – because I was naive but not stupid.
She looks really confident. That was my first thought. She was on top, moving up and down. Her hair was long and synthetic-looking – extensions – and there was something weird going on with her boobs: the outside part was bobbing up and down in time with the rest of her but the inside was moving at a slower pace. Implants, I thought. My first time to see them in real life.
Richie’s face was caught up in the throes and it’s something I wish I’d never seen. It stayed with me for years.
Then he noticed me and he went pale. The girl – I didn’t know her – continued her rhythmic bouncing. It took her a few extra seconds to realize something was wrong. She paused mid-move and followed Richie’s stare.
‘Fuck!’ she exclaimed, clambering off him.
Unfamiliar clothes were strewn about the floor – a black bra, a lace thong that wasn’t mine, a shiny copper-coloured dress. ‘Get dressed.’ I gathered them up and flung them at her. ‘And get out.’
She was gone in under a minute – in the short shiny dress and platform shoes, she couldn’t have looked more different from me if she’d tried – and I waited for Richie to launch into the usual things people say in these situations: ‘It was nothing, she was nothing, I was drunk, it was just sex.’ Already I was apologizing to myself for forgiving him.
As a teenager, whenever news broke of a famous woman staying with her cheating husband, Steevie and I were blisteringly scornful – no way would we hang around! No, we were strong girls with self-respect, we would never be so pathetic. But it’s different when it actually happens. When you’re young and vulnerable. When you have a baby with the man. And when you love him as much as I loved Richie Aldin.
Richie began to get dressed. Without meeting my eye he said, ‘Look, Amy, we should never have got married. We’re too young.’
‘N-no, we’re not,’ I stammered.
‘You’re twenty-two, I’m twenty-three,’ he said. ‘That’s too young. This isn’t working. I’m leaving.’
He hauled the soft suitcase out from under the bed and I cried, ‘No! You can’t.’ Adrenalin flooded me and my brain was flicking through all available inducements to make him stay.
‘Neeve,’ I said. ‘Your baby. You c
an’t leave her.’
‘I don’t want to be a dad.’
‘I know it’s hard.’ I was pleading. ‘But it won’t always be.’
He dumped three pairs of trainers in the bottom of the suitcase and I flung myself at him, trying to stop him from packing anything else. Effortlessly, he blocked me – he was short but strong and fit – and began pulling stuff from the wardrobe. In the tussle to stop him, something tore and he looked pissed off. His clothes had become more expensive recently, even though we were skint.
‘Is it that girl? Do you think you love her?’ Maybe I could beg her to back off.
‘The one who was here?’ Richie was irritated. ‘She’s nothing.’
‘But if she’s nothing …’
‘Amy,’ he said, almost gently, ‘I do it all the time.’
He was a professional footballer – not Premier League: he played for a club in the Third Division but, even so, football groupies were in plentiful supply.
‘But …’ I was stunned into silence. He’d always sworn he loved me way too much to be tempted and I’d believed him.
‘I’ve been cheating since you were pregnant.’
‘No.’ I began to choke with tears.
‘I wish none of this had happened,’ he said. ‘You, me, getting married, the baby.’
‘But you were the one who wanted a baby.’ I was gasping for breath. ‘And who wanted to get married.’
We’d been together since our last year in school, and although I was sure we were for ever, I’d worried that it was too soon for a wedding, never mind a baby. Richie (probably under gentle persuasion from his club, I realized, years later) had convinced me otherwise.
He picked up the case and headed for the front door. I got there first and pressed my back against it, determined to keep him from leaving. But, in the end, he went.
I wanted to die but, because of Neeve, I had to endure the longest, coldest, loneliest winter ever. I knew nobody in Leeds – the only reason I was living there was because Richie had been signed by a local club.
Maura tried to get me to move back to Dublin and avail of a network of friends and family, but my friends, all the same age as me, were behaving like normal twenty-two-year-olds, living it up and being irresponsible.
As for my family – they were variously sick (Mum), working all the hours (Pop), living in Australia (Derry), too flaky (Joe), too young (Declyn), and Maura would help far too much.
And even though Richie refused to see Neeve or me, it was vital to be nearby in case he changed his mind.
We’d only been married for eight months and Richie disentangled himself super-speedily – the divorce happened in under five months. A terrifying letter arrived from some sharky lawyers employed by his club, saying that Neeve would get a tiny monthly maintenance payment. I couldn’t afford a sharky solicitor and had to make do with an unsharky one from Legal Aid, but I pushed back hard and didn’t give up until the original offer was tripled.
It was still derisory, though.
But Neeve and I survived that awful winter. I went back to the PR company I’d been an assistant in before I’d gone on maternity leave and worked full-time while being Neeve’s sole carer. Life was gruelling – five hours’ sleep counted as a good night – and yet in photos from that time, it’s astonishing how healthy and sane I look.
There I am in an Audrey Hepburn-esque swingy car-coat in black mohair and black leather gloves to my elbows. Another picture has my hair in a kiss-curl ponytail and – where on earth did I find the time? – some elaborate sort-of-quiffy fringe. Nowadays, the phrase would be ‘My inspo is retro,’ but back then the only words available were ‘Too skint to buy my clothes in real shops.’
Feck alone knows where I got the energy but my weekends were spent haunting the vintage markets of Leeds, Neeve on my hip, and I was always in high heels.
There were some great finds – a tulip-skirt in brushed sateen, a vampy, figure-hugging gown in lustrous black satin, several shortie cashmere sweaters and an actual original Givenchy suit: a sheath dress and cute boxy jacket in the pastel blue of a sugared almond.
Most of the clothes are long gone – lost on various house moves or they fell apart from overuse – but even though it’s too small for me now, I still have that suit. It’s like an emblem: it reminds me of how hard life once was. And, perhaps, how resilient I can be if the need arises.
8
Saturday, 10 September
‘A break?’ Neeve is incredulous. ‘Do you think you’re Taylor Swift?’
‘No.’ Hugh rises to the bait. ‘I don’t.’
‘Please,’ I murmur to Neeve. ‘Let’s keep things civil. Have a croissant.’
I’ve set out the kitchen table like a working breakfast – pastries, fruit salad and coffee – but no one has touched the food. It’s just like being at work: people regard hunger as a display of weakness. But at the same time they’d be mortally offended if you didn’t provide buns.
‘We know you haven’t been very happy,’ Kiara says. ‘We’ll miss you but we’ll try to understand.’
‘Thanks, hon.’
‘So how do we get in touch?’ Kiara asks. ‘Will you FaceTime us once a week? Like every Saturday morning?’
‘No!’ Hugh says, way too quickly. The fear on his face shows that the last thing he wants is a routine. ‘No, ah … no.’ He clears his throat. ‘But I’ll have my mobile, and if any of you girls need me, you can call me any time you like.’
‘What about Mum?’ Neeve asks snarkily. ‘Can she call you any time she likes?’
Hugh’s look is apologetic. ‘If it’s an emergency.’
Oh. I hadn’t known my contact would be limited to that. God, this hurts so much.
‘The important thing to remember,’ Hugh says, ‘is that I love you all very much. I love you and I’ll be back.’
Sofie bursts into noisy tears. ‘Everyone always leaves.’
Poor Sofie. She looks frayed and unkempt, her fine white-blonde hair tangled into knots. And she’s even thinner than she was a week ago, tiny enough to pass for a twelve-year-old boy. Living with her mother clearly isn’t good for her but that’s something she needs to work out for herself. I can only stand on the sidelines, with my heart in my mouth.
Before the thought has fully formed, I’m putting half a Danish on her plate and saying, ‘Eat something, lovely.’
We all pause, and Sofie is so shocked, her sobs cease. Then Kiara takes the bun off Sofie’s plate and disposes of it in two speedy mouthfuls.
Despite my faux-pas, pride warms me – I’ve high, high hopes for Kiara: some kind of ambassadorship at the very least. She’s so attuned to the needs of others. For a fierce, bitter moment I wish she was the daughter with the vlog – she’d share the make-up with me.
Kiara brushes pastry crumbs from her mouth and says to Hugh, ‘We can come visit you?’
‘No!’ Once again he’s appalled. ‘I mean, no, no, hon, it isn’t that sort of break. I’ll be moving around and you know …’
‘We know,’ Neeve says meaningfully.
Kiara stares at her. ‘Don’t. That’s not what this is about. He wants to self-actualize – right, Dad?’
‘Right!’
Self-actualize. That’s a good word. If I can say it without side-eyeing myself, it could be useful.
‘But you’ll be home for Christmas?’ Kiara asks.
‘No, hon,’ he says gently. ‘But I’ll call.’
‘If you’re on a break,’ Neeve says, ‘it means Mum is too. Right?’
Some unknown expression scuds across his face.
‘You hadn’t thought of that?’ Neeve sounds scornful.
Hugh stares, as if he’s assessing how I’d fare on the open market, then he goes blank. ‘Amy is on a break too.’
‘Boom,’ Neeve says to me. ‘You can get back with my dad. Everyone knows you never got over him, which must be the only reason you married Taylor Swift here.’
I don’t know what to say. Exce
pt that I wouldn’t touch Richie Aldin if he was the last man on earth – I’d rather have whooping, lasso-waving, reverse-cowgirl-sex with Alastair every day of my life than go down that road again. But I never diss Richie to Neeve – let her discover for herself what a Complete Bastard he is. Unfortunately, however, because he’s kept his distance, she’s idealized him somewhat.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this to us.’ Sofie sounds like she’s going to cry again.
‘Honey, Sofie, I’m not leaving for ever.’
‘I’m going to Granny’s.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ Neeve says. ‘In Hugh’s car. He won’t be needing it for six months. So are we done here?’
‘Are we?’ Hugh is all big anxious eyes, as he consults the girls.
‘Yep,’ Neeve decrees.
‘But please understand,’ Hugh goes for one last burst of sincerity, ‘I love you with all my heart and I’ll only be gone for six months. I’m coming back.’
Sofie hisses, ‘You’re destroying everything.’ She whirls from the room, leaving Hugh white with distress.
‘Sorry to interrupt the disintegration of our family,’ Neeve says cheerily, ‘but DHL is bringing a delivery from Chanel.’
Instantly I’m wondering how best to steal it – it is agony to watch these prestigious cosmetics arrive – but she laughs. ‘I know what you’re thinking.’
‘Can’t you give her some?’ Hugh asks.
‘To ease the pain of you leaving her?’
‘I’m not leaving –’
‘We’ll see.’ Neeve closes him down. ‘If there’s stuff that would suit you, Mum, you can have it.’
‘It doesn’t have to suit me,’ I say. ‘I’d be happy with anything.’
She flicks a meaningful look at Hugh. ‘That’s obvious.’
Before words of protest can leave my mouth, Neeve and Sofie zip from the house. Hugh mutters, ‘I’ll just …’ and disappears upstairs, leaving Kiara and me sitting looking at one another.
9
‘Wow,’ Kiara says. ‘Big shock.’
And now I’m raging. Neeve and Sofie had shitty starts to life, but everything had gone smoothly for Kiara. This shouldn’t be about me, but Kiara was my clean sheet, my success story, and now Hugh has besmirched that too. ‘I’m so sorry, sweetie,’ I say. ‘Are you okay?’
