The Break

by Marian Keyes

  ‘Hmm, yeah.’ He’s thoughtful. ‘I can’t really see it.’

  And now I’m offended.

  A young woman has parked herself on the end of Alastair’s couch. I lower my voice and lean in to him. ‘Is she on her own?’

  ‘Stop projecting.’

  ‘I’ve been married for a long time,’ I hiss. ‘I’m transitioning as fast as I can.’

  ‘And even if someone arrives here on their own,’ he says, ‘they may not leave on their own. And whatever happens, they’ll hear a nice story and get hot chocolate. Here’s Grigori.’

  A huge man, tall and heavy-set, is crossing the room. He’s got a curly beard and wears a linen tunic, a tapestry waistcoat and baggy linen trousers, tucked into leather boots.

  ‘Oh! He looks just like a story-teller!’ I’m delighted.

  Grigori sits on a big carved wooden chair and produces a book. A thrill seems to move through the room, then silence falls. Grigori sounds like a Slavic Stephen Fry, which is entirely right for the story, a fable that concerns a woodcutter, a forest, orphans, Simnel cake, a reflecting pool, evil people, good people, mysterious people …

  A blanket of calm floats on to me, easing the tightness in my chest. My breathing is slow and steady and strong, and I swear I can feel the actual insides of my stomach unclench. The beanbag takes my weight as I drift in the most delicious way. My eyes close, merciful sleep is coming for me – and I have a question. I pull Alastair’s sleeve. ‘Is Grigori an actor? Or is he real?’

  ‘He’s real.’

  He’s real. I’m glad. I tuck that comforting thought into me and surrender again. I’m floating on a boat on a gentle sea. Sleep steals towards me, doing all the work. It doesn’t matter that I’m not in my own bed. I’ll stay the night here on this beanbag … I’ll pay whatever they want for the room. No amount of money is too much for this bliss …

  ‘Wha’?!’ I’m dreaming that small, furry creatures called coots have attached themselves to the sides of my face so I look like I’ve sideburns. I’m pulling and tearing, trying to get them off me …

  ‘Amy … Amy …’

  I don’t want to be a woman with sideburns. ‘I’m no hipster!’ I call out – and, abruptly, I’m awake. Alastair’s face is looming over me.

  ‘Amy,’ he says tenderly. ‘Story’s over. It’s time to wake up.’

  41

  Thursday, 6 October, day twenty-four

  The weirdest thing has just happened. A text in from Richie Aldin: Amy, can we meet? Quick conversation x

  I’m flooded with alarm. What the hell is this about? Money? That’s all it can be. But what money? He’d stopped Neeve’s maintenance when she was eighteen.

  My Thursday has just taken a turn for the worst.

  The whole week has been a route march: a blur of early mornings, trying to get Kiara – and Sofie when she stays over – up for school, helping find the countless things they’ve mislaid, feeding the lot of us in the evenings, keeping on top of laundry and all the rest of the household shite, including countless random glitches and breakages, stuff that was usually Hugh’s remit.

  On Monday night Mum nabbed me for Pop-sitting – more drinks with these mysterious friends of hers, whatever the hell she’s up to.

  My two days in London almost felt like respite, because the only person I was responsible for was me.

  Also, I’ve landed two new clients. My successful rehabilitation of Bryan Sawyer seems to have raised me above the radar, and to know that more money will be coming in is one worry eased.

  Nevertheless, Hugh is perpetually in my thoughts. I’m moving through my life where everything is the same as it always was but poisoned by profound dread. Keeping myself from ringing him is utterly exhausting.

  The urge to start smoking again has abated, which would be good news except that I’ve swapped it for another addiction: my online shopping has hit code red. My current obsession is with finding the perfect dress for the awards thing in Brighton. It needs to be sexy, formal, age-appropriate, funky, long, short and flattering. As a result of this demanding brief, every dress that arrives is wrong so has to be returned and three or four more ordered. I suppose I’m giving welcome employment to the DPD men, the UPS men, the Parcelforce men and the rest. All part of the trickle-down economy, right?

  Buzzing with anxiety, I text Richie: What’s up?

  Nothing bad. I can come to you x

  I’d been planning to get my nails done after work, but I’m so panicky that I decide to cancel. Then I decide not to. Whatever he’s got on me, it can wait one more hour. I spent too many years dancing to his tune and it’s not about to start again. It’s hard, though.

  I text: Meet me 7.30 the Bailey

  Seconds later he replies: Too crowded. The Marker 7.45 x

  No. The Marker is too far away and it’s in the wrong direction. Already weary from his bullshit, my next text says: I’ll be in the Bailey 7.30

  Immediately K x pings back.

  Sitting through the manicure and having to act normal is a challenge. It would have been tricky anyway, the way everything is tricky right now, but Richie has really put the wind up me. The beautician is chatty but speedy so we finish early and I duck into Brown Thomas to kill time by looking at lovely things. It’s madly busy. You can already sense Christmas, even though it’s only 6 October. It’s all too shovey and pushy, so at twenty past seven I give up and go to the pub.

  It’s crowded but not full and, proving Richie’s objections wrong, I get a seat straight away. He’s so territorial: everything always has to be on his terms.

  Oh, here he is, also early. Decked out in an expensive-looking herringbone tweed coat and some soft scarf in a shade of khaki. He spots me and nods, then someone – a woman – intercepts him. Watching the conversation, I see that she’s some sort of admirer. He speaks, he smiles – and she melts. Now he’s making his excuses and she’s looking downcast.

  Finally he reaches me. ‘Sorry about that.’ He kisses my cheek, then straddles a nearby stool and peels off his scarf and coat. Underneath his coat he’s wearing a heather-coloured V-neck jumper in some lightweight wool. The purplish shade makes his hair look more golden and his eyes greener.

  A scornful phrase from my teenage years speaks in my head: If he was chocolate, he’d eat himself.

  He picks up my hand. ‘Nice nails. Pretty.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, too polite not to.

  ‘Just get them done?’

  ‘Yep. So,’ I ask, ‘what’s up?’

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Got one.’ I indicate my vodka because this is definitely a vodka kind of conversation.

  ‘I’ll just get a …’ He goes to the bar and obviously gets served immediately because he’s back almost as soon as he leaves, with what looks like water, then rearranges his seat position so that he’s directly opposite me.

  ‘So?’ I ask.

  ‘Okay.’ He spreads his fingers on his thighs, takes a deep breath and looks me in the eye. ‘I want to tell you that I’m sorry.’

  Surprise and suspicion silence me. Eventually I manage, ‘For what?’

  Another deep breath. Another sincere gaze. ‘For leaving you. For you finding out the way you did. For not giving you enough money. For not seeing Neeve.’

  I’m dumbfounded. I open and shut my mouth, then say, ‘Why now?’

  ‘I –’

  ‘Have you cancer? Found God? In recovery and doing your steps?’

  ‘No, none of them. Just … I owe you an apology.’

  ‘But …’ I’m really struggling. ‘Like, twenty years later?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  Whatever.

  ‘Amy, I’m sorry to say that I didn’t see it for a long time, how selfish I was. It must have devastated you.’

  ‘It didn’t.’

  ‘I wasn’t suggesting …’ He’s Mr Sincerity. ‘Sorry, Amy, I didn’t mean to imply … Just you were young. And you had to bring up a baby on your own. It must have been hard
.’

  ‘But it all worked out.’

  ‘I don’t know why it took me so long to see how selfish I was. I don’t know why I was so mean. When Neeve told me that Hugh had left you –’

  ‘Hold on a minute there. Hugh hasn’t left me. He’s taking time out. And it’s okay.’ No way am I getting into the complexities with Richie Aldin.

  ‘But Neeve said –’

  ‘She was wrong. Mistaken. Whatever. Wrong. Okay?’

  He nods. ‘Okay. But when I – mistakenly – thought he’d left you, it made me think of how it must have been when I left.’ He looks as if he’s in anguish. ‘Do you think … I mean, can you ever forgive me?’

  In that moment I realize that I forgave him a long time ago. The rancour must have just vaporized while I wasn’t looking. ‘I forgive you for leaving me the way you did. But I can never forgive you for all the ways you hurt Neeve.’

  ‘I know, I get it, and I’m going to make it up to her.’

  Surprised, I say, ‘You can’t. I’m not being mean, Richie, these are just the facts. You can never give her back those years when she wanted a dad.’

  ‘I can. I will.’

  There he sits, so calm and so certain, his glinty green eyes limpid with good intentions. ‘I don’t understand,’ I stammer. ‘How can you think … What I mean is, the only way you can fix Neeve’s childhood is with time travel.’

  He laughs, but I’m not being funny.

  ‘There are other ways,’ he says.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I’m going to spend more time with her. I’ll make her happy in the now.’

  ‘Yes, but …’ That’s not going to alter what’s happened. ‘Hey, don’t mess with Neeve.’ I’m afraid now that he’s going to burst in and build up her hopes, then disappear again as soon as he loses interest.

  ‘I’m not going to mess with her.’ He sounds astonished. ‘I’m going to make everything right, and I really want you and me to be friends.’

  ‘Why would we be friends?’ I pause. ‘I don’t mean that the way it sounds. But, seriously, why would we be friends?’

  ‘Because we were everything to each other once. Weren’t we?’

  To my surprise, a memory flashes. Being with Richie was the first time I’d had a sense of home. After a perpetually uncertain childhood, it was thrilling to step away from the substandard family Fate had foisted on me and simply create a new one. I’d thought I’d found the secret to life. But I was wrong. My original family weren’t as substandard as I’d once thought when my new one imploded. ‘None of that feeling is left,’ I say.

  ‘So let’s start over. As friends.’

  ‘But, Richie –’ I’m struggling to say what I mean – ‘I’ve a policy of liking my friends and I don’t think I can make an exception for you.’

  He laughs again, and again it’s not meant to be funny.

  ‘I’m going to make things right.’ He’s full of fierce conviction. There was a time when this would have made me die with joy. ‘I’m going to make everything up to you.’

  ‘No. Please don’t. Please, Richie, don’t.’

  As soon as I arrive home, Neeve calls, ‘Mum, you owe me a hundred and twelve euro.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘You bought a load of stuff from Korea?’

  ‘Oh, ah, one or two things. Essentials.’

  ‘There were Customs charges.’

  There were? ‘They never said that on the site!’ I feel foolish and stung. I’d thought it was a nice site. Run by nice people.

  ‘He’s a laugh, George, the DPD man,’ Neeve says.

  ‘You know his name!’ Sofie says.

  ‘He’s here so often with Mum’s stuff, we’re practically engaged. Anyway, let’s have a look at what she bought.’

  There are two boxes on the coffee table. Kiara, Sofie and Neeve crowd around as I open them. I can hardly remember what was in this consignment – it had been late at night and I might have been a bit drunk and I’m ordering so much stuff that it’s all merging into one and – Oh, it’s coming back to me now. Dresses, wasn’t it? I unfold one, a maxi in black lace, with an elasticated neckline. Or is it an elasticated hem? It’s hard to know which end of the dress is which because, well, it’s enormous.

  ‘What size did you get?’ Neeve asks.

  ‘Ten.’ My voice is faint.

  ‘It looks like a size thirty.’

  ‘Check the label.’

  ‘Yep, it says ten. But it’s totally not.’

  ‘Two of us could fit in it,’ Kiara says.

  ‘We could!’ Neeve is pulling it on, then Kiara is shimmying underneath it, before her head pops out next to Neeve’s. The elasticated neckline stretches around both sets of shoulders and they’re in convulsions. ‘Come on, Sofie, come on, Mum, there’s room for all of us in here!’

  42

  Sixteen months ago

  ‘Hugh, have you ever cheated on me?’

  ‘Wait! What?’ He twisted to look at me. ‘You even have to ask?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I shook my head. ‘I’m an eejit. Don’t mind me.’

  It was the evening after the awards dinner in London where I’d propositioned Josh Rowan. From the moment I’d woken up that morning I was awash with shame.

  How could I have done that to Hugh? Hugh, whom I loved with such fierce tenderness. Hugh, who was so good to me and so good to everyone. It wasn’t just the previous night I was ashamed about but the entire almost-month I’d been narky, barely present and spending as much time as possible in my head, thinking dreamy thoughts about another man. It was all so wrong.

  I loathed myself. I was despicable. And, like, mad. Because I hadn’t even been that drunk when the invitation to Josh Rowan had tumbled from my mouth.

  If I’d been Jekyll-and-Hyde, borderline-psychotic scuttered, it might be understandable that I’d propositioned him. You hear of people doing the maddest things when they’re that stotious – stealing JCB diggers and driving them along Oxford Street, offering lifts. But no way had I been that drunk.

  What had it been about? I’d been playing a game, that’s what. Wondering if someone would fancy me. And that was contemptible because Josh Rowan was a person. He had feelings. And he had a wife.

  By the time I’d got back to Dublin my shame had evolved into ecstatic gratitude that nothing had happened.

  When Hugh had opened our front door, I’d walked straight into his arms and pressed myself against his comforting bigness, hugging him so hard and for so long that eventually he had to peel me off him. ‘What’s up?’ He was half laughing.

  I stared up into his beloved face, his honest blue eyes, and gently touched the prickles of his beard with my fingers. ‘Hugh Durrant, you’re the best man on earth, do you know that?’

  ‘You’re scaring me now.’

  ‘I missed you. Am I not allowed to miss you?’

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  In the kitchen, an atavistic urge to touch all my stuff came over me, to feel the solidity of my life.

  I’d gone away and I’d come back and nothing was different – nothing. There was no tear in the fabric of my marriage and no shameful betrayal burning holes in my soul. I had the same elation you’d have walking away without a scratch from a crash that destroyed your car.

  ‘Something to eat?’ Hugh asked.

  ‘No … Okay, maybe.’ For the first time all day food was a possibility. ‘What have you?’

  ‘Your cheese. I picked it up from the sorting office. The poor bastards said they’d been breathing through their mouths for the past week.’

  God, what a man! He’d gone out of his way to collect my cheese, the cheese that arrived every month, thanks to him buying me membership of a cheese club. ‘Okay, then, yes, please.’

  ‘Wine?’

  I almost shuddered. ‘No wine.’

  ‘Last night was that bad?’

  Then I did actually shudder. ‘Awful.’

  While Hugh moved around the kitchen, gathering a pla
te, a knife, some crackers, bursts of panic started attacking me.

  Me and Josh Rowan naked.

  It didn’t happen.

  Josh rearing over me, unrolling a condom along the length of his erection.

  It didn’t happen.

  Josh sliding himself into me.

  It didn’t happen.

  But what if things had gone differently? If I was sitting here now, in my kitchen, having had sex with another man?

  Hugh would know, wouldn’t he? We were so in sync that he’d intuit something bad had happened, and the thought of having a secret from him, a secret that would destroy him, made me feel sick all over again.

  But it didn’t happen. I didn’t do it. Thank you, God.

  Mind you, who knew that being a cheater was almost as bad as being cheated on?

  Then a little thought wormed in: maybe at some stage Hugh had cheated?

  So I asked him and his response – ‘You even have to ask?’ – let me know how way off course I was.

  ‘But wouldn’t it be so hard …?’ I was thinking aloud.

  ‘What would?’

  ‘The guilt. You know, having to keep the secret from the one person you tell everything to.’

  Hugh put down the knife he’d been using and he went very still. All that moved were his eyes, questions in them, as his gaze roamed over my face. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’

  ‘No.’ Once again I was soaring with relief. So gloriously grateful that nothing had happened with Josh Rowan. I felt clean and ecstatic. ‘No, sweetie. No. Nothing. Hey, listen,’ I said. ‘Leave the cheese. Come upstairs with me.’

  He gave me a hard look to see if he understood my meaning.

  ‘I’m lighting the candles.’ An in-joke: it was how I signalled to Hugh that I was in the mood.

  He looked unimpressed but he followed me upstairs, where I performed wildly enthusiastic non-cheater’s sex and didn’t spend a single second fantasizing about Josh. Not that I’d ever done that – at least, not during sex with Hugh. Once or twice, on my own, I had – those nights in London, sleeping by myself.

  But never again.

  43