The Break

by Marian Keyes

  ‘What are you even doing here?’ I asked.

  He went to say something, then stopped, and in that hiatus, those unuttered words, I felt the … something, the whatever-there-was between us.

  He shrugged. ‘I want to make things right.’

  I nodded, but that wasn’t the truth. Or, at least, not the whole truth.

  Out we went, and the interview recommenced, but now Chrissy was pleasant and Premilla visibly relaxed.

  Josh Rowan resumed his original position, propped against the wall, watching us, and again I wondered why he was there.

  ‘Excuse me.’ My tone was cold. ‘Would you mind leaving?’

  ‘He needs to stay,’ Chrissy said. ‘He’ll be finalizing copy.’

  Suddenly all was clear: her name would be on the by-line but Josh Rowan would control the content. Okay, so he stayed.

  After an hour Chrissy disappeared to write her copy and it was time for the photoshoot, which was at least as important as the interview. The stylist had set up three racks of clothes in the bedroom and, with a gimlet eye, I flicked through them. ‘No. No. No jeans. No denim.’

  ‘How about this?’ She held up an amazing Roksanda shift, but it was red and red was too celebratory.

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ There was real longing in my voice. ‘But no red, yellow, pink or orange. No bright colours. Think atonement.’

  ‘The movie? I’ve got a green bias-cut –’

  ‘Not the movie.’ I couldn’t help a laugh. ‘The emotion, the noun, whatever it is.’

  Something made me look up. Josh Rowan was in the room. He’d overheard and, without him smiling or making any kind of noise, I knew he was amused.

  No. No in-jokes. We couldn’t be complicit in anything. I wasn’t having it.

  After several false starts, Premilla’s look eventually met my approval – tailored black trousers, a floaty Chloé blouse, and the dullest shoes you’ve ever seen (black leather, rounded toe, two-inch heels). She looked like a slightly stylish headmistress.

  Next I stuck like glue to the make-up artist as she did Premilla’s face, making sure the red patches of psoriasis were covered, nixing too-bright lip-glosses and insisting that her hair be tidied away into a neat bun. Throughout this the photographer was giving me hard looks and he was correct to be worried: as soon as the shoot started, I was right in there.

  ‘Don’t put her behind a desk,’ I said. ‘She stands, she’s got nothing to hide. Okay, smile, Premilla, but no teeth.’ It was a fine line, she couldn’t look like she was delighted to be a drug addict but the ‘tragic Premilla’ poses had also to be avoided. ‘Think “tentatively hopeful”.’

  The photographer handed me a camera. ‘Great idea – why don’t you take the shots?’

  ‘I know.’ I held up my hands and shrugged in a what-can-you-do manner. ‘I’m a nightmare.’ Yes, he hated me but it was my job to protect Premilla.

  And all the time this was happening I could feel Josh Rowan’s eyes on me. It made me feel … self-conscious. Resentful. Confused. Excited.

  By the time the photos were done, it was gone seven. I put Premilla into a cab to her sister’s.

  Josh Rowan said, ‘Chrissy’s filed. Emailing it to you.’

  ‘Thanks – yeah, okay, bye-bye, thank you, bye.’ The stylist and the rest of them were leaving.

  I clicked on the attachment and my heart sank at the first sentence: ‘Curled up in the tasteful upholstery of a luxurious London hotel …’

  Josh was reading it too, sitting opposite me in the living room, which was suddenly very quiet now that everyone was gone.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  ‘I know.’

  I looked around. ‘It is luxurious …’

  ‘But hardly relevant.’

  ‘There can be no hint that she’s profited in any way from this.’

  ‘On it.’ He quickly typed something.

  ‘A disclaimer she wasn’t paid for this?’

  ‘Done.’

  ‘So let’s strike that opener and –’

  ‘Describe how upset she was when she arrived?’

  ‘Don’t overdo it. Make clear it was emotional distress, not physical withdrawals.’

  ‘Okay.’ He started typing again. Little flurries of words, followed by deletions, and long stretches of him just staring at the screen before the flurries started again. ‘How about this?’ He read out, ‘ “This wasn’t what Premilla Routh had planned for her life. All her years of hard work, playing draughty theatres in provincial towns, followed by the bootcamp ethic of Misery Street shooting four shows a week, only to be catapulted into the headlines for buying prescription medication on the streets. She’s devastated.” ’

  ‘A bit tabloid-y,’ I said. ‘But good. Excise “on the streets” and keep going.’

  Over the next few hours Josh and I back-and-forthed over copy and entirely rewrote the profile. Chrissy’s original piece hadn’t been mean – she’d got the brief – but this new one was much more insightful, focusing on the horrors of accidental addiction. The actual drug purchase was barely mentioned. Josh had obviously listened intently to everything that Premilla had said. It had been worth letting him stay in the room.

  As the piece took shape it became clear that this was much, much better than a mere mop-up operation – it could even act as the pivot for Premilla’s new future. A benzo addiction group would probably snap her up as their spokesperson and she’d be considered for darker, more serious acting roles, seeing as she’d endured and survived her own mini-hell.

  ‘Premilla will come out of this looking good,’ I acknowledged.

  ‘Best thing that ever happened to her,’ Josh said.

  My head snapped up.

  Then I saw that he was joking.

  ‘Our greatest crisis is also our greatest opportunity.’ His tone was mockingly solemn.

  I replied, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’

  ‘Sometimes it takes a wrong turn to get you to the right place.’

  ‘My personal hate,’ I said, ‘is “Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” ’

  ‘Mine is “Don’t run from your bad feelings. Instead –’

  ‘– dance with them”,’ I finished.

  The mood had lightened. We were both smiling, his a one-sided, reluctant-looking affair.

  ‘Instagram is the worst for that inspirational crap,’ I said.

  ‘Yep. Nothing is too banal or too obvious that it can’t be posted.’

  ‘Pinterest is bad too. I hate-follow loads of asshats just to see the platitudes they post.’

  ‘I’ve never really got on with Pinterest. Too much tapestry.’ He looked at his screen. ‘So.’

  So. Back to work.

  ‘To finish this up,’ he said. ‘For the shoutline, how about “My GP Prescribed It”?’

  ‘Great.’ It was making the piece about the drug, not the person.

  ‘Read it through one more time and, if you’re happy, I’ll send it in.’

  I scanned it again. Perfect. I gave him the nod and the moment he pressed Send, the exhaustion hit me.

  ‘What time is it?’ I checked my phone. ‘Christ. Quarter past eleven. Missed the last flight home.’ And too late to arrive round to Druzie’s. ‘I’d better get a hotel.’

  ‘You’re in a hotel.’

  ‘Are you delusional? No normal person could spring for a joint like this.’

  ‘But the Herald have already paid. You should stay. In this luxurious suite.’

  That made me smile. ‘Well, it is luxurious … but me staying here would be all kinds of wrong. You should stay.’ Suddenly giddy, because a tougher-than-tough day had finally ended, I exclaimed, ‘Hey, why don’t we both stay?’

  At his expression my face flared with heat. ‘I just meant …’ What had I meant? ‘I was only … joking.’

  He stared at me for a long, long moment. ‘That’s a shame.’

  29

  Saturday,
17 September, day five

  Saturday morning … the gorgeous, dreamy realization that today is the day I can stay in bed for as long as I like …

  Then I remember.

  Down in my half-sleep, I’ve run full-tilt into a steel door. Struggling for breath, pawing for the light-switch, I sit up, hoping it’s a bad dream but knowing it isn’t.

  Now I’m wide awake and the room is bright. I stare at his side of the bed. Empty.

  I stare and stare, then lift the duvet and touch the sheet that he had once lain on. Where are you now? Who are you with?

  And why haven’t you called me?

  He’d said he wouldn’t but I nurse a hope that he won’t stick to it.

  Missing him is exhausting, the urge to ring him almost unendurable. Just to hear his unmistakable voice – it would pierce my pain and fill the need in my chest. Hugh has the perfect voice – the right depth, the right volume, properly warm and comforting. Even the words he speaks are the right ones. He chooses them carefully. He won’t say something if he doesn’t mean it. I’m only fully appreciating all of this now.

  I reach for my phone, look at his contact details and hover on the edge of pressing Call for second after second after second. He’d pick up because he’d think it was an emergency. Then he’d probably be pissed off with me and maybe I need to keep my powder dry for some real emergency.

  But doesn’t he miss me? I’ve missed him for almost every single second since Tuesday.

  Sobs force themselves out of me and, barely knowing what I’m at, I punch his stack of pillows and cry-shout, ‘Why haven’t you called me?’ I hit the pillows a second whack. ‘You fucker!’ Another blow lands. ‘You complete bastard!’ And another. ‘You fucking disloyal pr–’

  ‘Mum?’

  Shite! Which one is it?

  It’s okay. It’s Neeve who’s standing at my bedroom door, staring in shock. Neeve can handle seeing this. Kiara couldn’t.

  ‘Are you okay?’ She sounds tentative.

  ‘Completely fucking fabulous!’ My face is roasting and the salty tears sting my skin. I clout the pillows again. ‘I just can’t believe he hasn’t called me.’

  ‘Mum, he said he wouldn’t.’

  ‘But he SHOULD HAVE!’ I screech – into my hands so Kiara won’t hear.

  ‘That’s just how Hugh is.’

  ‘So fucking cold!’

  ‘Not cold. Just … linear. Is that the word? If he says he’ll do something, he sticks to it.’

  ‘Well, he said he’d love me for ever!’

  ‘He’s coming back.’

  ‘It’ll be all fucked up. It’ll never be the same.’

  ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

  She bolts from the room while sobs are wrenched from me. After a while I’m dimly aware that she’s returned.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asks.

  My answer is punctuated by sobbing. ‘The weekly. Fucking. Shop.’

  ‘No, Mum. Don’t do that to yourself.’

  ‘I have to. We need STUFF!’

  ‘Do it online.’

  ‘But they’re such useless fuckers online,’ I sob. ‘I order Pink Ladies and they bring Gala apples instead, and that’s the least worst thing they do, and I know they’re first-world problems, I know, but please don’t judge me.’

  ‘I’ll do the shop,’ she offers.

  ‘You’re a useless fucker too.’ Now I’m cry-laughing.

  ‘Seriously, Mum, I’ll do it.’

  ‘Okay.’ I wipe my face on the duvet cover. Like, what’s the worst thing that can happen? Fear seizes my heart and I clutch her arm. ‘Don’t forget the wine.’

  ‘So what are we doing today?’ Lovatt lifts and lets fall a lock of my hair. ‘Taking it down a couple of shades?’

  In the mirror I stare at him. I’m in a peculiar mood: all the crying has emptied me out. Eventually my numb lips form a word. ‘No.’

  He sighs heavily. ‘Well, what are we doing with these ends?’

  That’s another thing he’s always at – bullying me into getting it cut before I’m ready. I could just leave. I could stand up, take off the gown and leave. There’s the door, right there. I gaze at it, then meet his eye once more. He swallows and says, ‘I’ll just mix up the colour.’

  ‘I’m going to sack my hairdresser.’ This is how I greet Steevie.

  She rolls her eyes. We’ve played this game frequently over the past thirty years. ‘No,’ she says. ‘Amy, this is the worst time to be making important life decisions. It’ll be just as bad with the new one. Sooner or later you’ll run out of hairdressers.’

  ‘There are billions of hairdressers in the world.’

  ‘Not good ones, there aren’t. They’re like good men, only a very small supply.’

  How have we already fallen into an All Men Are Bastards conversation?

  ‘You don’t want to end up like me,’ she says, ‘having to cut your own hair.’

  ‘But you don’t.’ Steevie has a stunning cut, an out-there spiky crop that hugs the shape of her pretty head. She goes to Jim Hatton.

  ‘It’s a euphemism.’

  It’s really quite depressing how quickly she brings everything back to her being abandoned by Lee.

  Suitable conversation subjects: velvet boots; verve or swerve?; Syrian refugees; is another fundraising piss-up in order?; Dads with Alzheimer’s – can hitting them with an iPad ever be justified? (Just a small tap, not intended to hurt, simply to reprove.)

  ‘Have you ordered yet?’ I ask.

  ‘Course not. Waited for you.’ She passes me a menu.

  God, there are so many options. And each dish has so many parts – halibut with samphire and Champagne sauce, autumn vegetable crumble and duchesse potatoes. That sounds, well … revolting.

  ‘What starter are you having?’ she asks.

  Starter? God. I can’t eat one, never mind two complicated courses.

  ‘No starter for me.’

  ‘Oh? Okay. No harm, I suppose. I’ll skip it too.’

  Wearily I choose the least disgusting-sounding lunch. Then Steevie says, ‘So how’re you doing?’

  This is where the discussion of velvet boots should start but I waver, then admit, ‘A bit shit.’

  She nods. ‘That’s what happens when your loving husband shows his true colours. When Lee left, I felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest and stomped on.’

  She’s waiting for my agreement, but that’s not how it is for me. ‘I feel … like I’m living under a dark shadow. As if every light bulb in the world has been changed to those low-energy eco ones that start off dim as fuck, then get brighter. Except, these days, they never get brighter. Everything seems ominous, as if a terrible thing is about to happen. Then I realize it already has.’

  ‘Oh, it has.’

  ‘Most of the time I can’t believe he’s gone. I still think that when I go home later he’ll be there.’

  Meeting Steevie was meant to be a good thing, cheery – okay, maybe cheery was going too far, but comforting. Instead my spirits are sinking to the centre of the earth, at the same time as panic is rising.

  ‘He hasn’t called me. He’s heartless.’

  ‘I always knew that about him.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. Heartless. And a cheater.’

  ‘Hugh?’

  ‘Amy.’ She looks concerned. ‘Why are you so surprised?’

  ‘Are you saying that Hugh’s been cheating? Here? In Dublin?’

  ‘Love of God, no, Amy! Not that I know of anyway. I’m just saying they’re all cheaters. Hugh’s made it trickier for himself than most. He had to manufacture some mad crisis and travel to the other side of the world to do his cheating, so he could feel okay about it. But he’s still a cheater.’

  Right. AMAB. All Men Are Bastards. Well, she’s right, of course. Except is Hugh a bastard?

  ‘So you’re going to Vivi Cooper’s thing tonight?’ Steevie asks.

  I start to explain, then
abruptly decide against it – my fear is that Steevie will suggest we go out together instead and, for reasons I don’t understand, I want to get away from her. ‘Yep. Vivi’s birthday thing.’

  ‘You and all the couples.’

  Steevie and Vivi aren’t friends, but since Lee left her, Steevie regularly implies she’s omitted from events because she no longer has a husband.

  In softer tones, she says, ‘It’s tougher than it looks, Amy. Being the only single person at a table of couples.’

  Our food arrives and I’m hoping she’ll abandon the subject, but no.

  ‘It’s fucking horrible, Amy.’ Her voice cracks. ‘And I’m not sure you’re up to it.’

  God. I stare at my plate, at all the mysterious blobs and smears. There’s no way any of that can go into my mouth.

  ‘You’ll never recover,’ she adds. ‘You’ll never go back to the person you were. But in time you’ll come to terms with it.’

  Trying to keep the wobble from my voice, I say, ‘Knowing me, I’ll probably come to terms with it just around the time he arrives home.’

  It was supposed to be funny, but Steevie looks appalled. ‘Amy, that’s just when it’ll be kicking off. Once they’ve, you know …’ she winces ‘… excuse my language, fucked another woman, they can never settle again.’

  This is pretty much what Derry said to me, and it’s what I’d implied to Neeve only a few hours ago: that when – if – Hugh comes back, life won’t slot neatly back into place, as if nothing had ever happened.

  But the way Steevie is saying it is scaring me sideways.

  ‘That’s assuming he doesn’t come back with STDs and herpes and genital warts and …’

  Oh, God, I’m looking at the blobs and smears again and remembering that Lee gave her genital herpes, so she knows what she’s talking about, and my stomach bucks and I hear myself say, ‘You know, Steevie, I don’t feel well. I’m so sorry, but I’m just going to …’ I swipe my bag from the floor and I’m tearing through my wallet, looking for cash, because I need to leave right now – there’s no time to do the card thing.

  A fiver appears. That won’t be enough. Panic tightens my chest. I need to leave! There’s a twenty, thank God. And maybe some coins. Yes, coins, couple of two-euros in there. I dump a load of change on top of the notes and say, my voice breathless, ‘If I owe more, I’ll pay you back. So sorry.’