The Break

by Marian Keyes

  Neeve has never had a long-term love. Well, of course she might have done – no doubt she has billions of secrets from me – but never a relationship where she brings the person over here to the house and we all lie around watching Drake videos together, the way we do with Sofie’s Jackson.

  Now and again she’d get uncharacteristically teary and fixated on someone but none of those – probably unsurprisingly – has developed into anything dull and ordinary. Recently – earning great approval from Kiara – she had a short thing with a girl but apparently ‘I’m on the hetero-normative end of the spectrum and I feel, like, lame.’ (‘Hey, you tried,’ Kiara consoled her.)

  I used to worry that Neeve’s apparent allergy to a steady love interest was Richie’s fault. Had his serial abandonments damaged her ability to trust? Now I see I had it entirely wrong – what eejit would open themselves up to all that potential pain? Neeve is clearly far better off dedicating herself to her work and her friends, thereby keeping her heart safe.

  I wish I’d had the sense to stick to the equilibrium I’d found after Richie had left me. It’s wrong to say I regret meeting Hugh because Kiara is his great gift to me, but if I’d stayed as the self-reliant person I’d once been, I wouldn’t feel the agony I’m currently in.

  Kiara bursts into my room. ‘Mum, come! With your sewing kit!’

  It’s like being a paramedic. Neeve’s caught the heel of her shoe in the hem of her dress and torn a couple of stitches and she’s as distraught as if there’d been a multiple car pile-up.

  We fix her up, then she’s good to go, groomed and cool. The dress, an asymmetrical black-and-white-lace affair by Self-Portrait is the fanciest thing she’s ever blagged. The shoes, sequined black sandals are Dolce knock-offs and her black velvet choker is a copy of the Marc Jacobs one I’m currently lusting after. Her fabulous thick red-gold hair is piled on top of her head, adding about another four inches to her height.

  ‘Mum, am I okay?’ Her anxiety is tragic.

  ‘You’re stunning.’ But the long and the short of it is, I don’t trust Richie Aldin not to snap out of his hand-wringing guilt trip and revert to cruel, angst-free type. All I can do is hope he doesn’t hurt her.

  For the millionth time I hit Refresh. Still nothing. It’s way after midnight and I’m waiting for Sunday’s papers to come online. The thought of going upstairs and enduring a second sleepless night is so unbearable that pretending I’m working makes me feel a little less pathetic.

  The worry is always that, despite their assurances, the Sunday Times won’t run the Matthew shots. Until it’s actually happened, you cannot trust any newspaper to fulfil their promises. Anything could scupper this – internal politicking, the whim of an editor or, of course, some disaster.

  I take a swig of wine, then a swig of Gaviscon, hit Refresh once more and, finally, here are tomorrow’s papers. Matthew is on page five, a great spot that guarantees maximum visibility. Sixteen of the twenty photos are up online, as well as a positive written piece, detailing the kids’ warm clothing, Matthew’s evident affection and how happy the three of them look together. Best of all, there’s no mention of Sharmaine.

  Then a quick scan of Ruthie’s big interview: there are lots of allusions but no hard facts. I’m happy to declare this weekend’s media a draw.

  63

  Monday, 7 November, day fifty-six

  On Monday night Mum nabs me, yet again, for Pop-sitting. She looks radiant, really very beautiful. The new hair is wonderful and she’s wearing a gorgeous pair of earrings. Well, gorgeous for her, some sort of blue stone surrounded by tiny diamonds. They wouldn’t be for me in a billion years. ‘Fancy earbobs,’ I say.

  ‘Some shop sent them to Neeve, for me! For free! All I have to do is Instagram them.’

  ‘You’re not on Instagram.’

  ‘I am now. Neeve set me up. She does it all, takes the photos and that. But it’s tremendous fun! I can’t tell you how happy I am, Amy. In a way I feel like I’ve only just started living. Not just the hair and the vlog and my new red nails.’ She flashes me her two-week manicure. ‘But all of it. The new people and the gin-and-tonics and just everything.’

  Something prickles in me, the same instinct that had stirred in the recent past. ‘Tell me more about these new friends of yours. They all have spouses with Alzheimer’s, you say? And would any of these new friends be men?’

  She colours. She actually does. ‘Of course there are men. The law of averages says that.’

  ‘And how many of these men come along on a night out?’

  She opens the front door and pokes her head into the cold night. ‘Is that my taxi?’

  I take a quick glance. There’s nothing out there. ‘So how many men come on these gin-and-tonic nights?’

  ‘How did Neevy get on the other night with that waste of space Richie Aldin?’

  She got on great. I suppose. She’d burst into my room at about three a.m., buzzing with happiness because she’d met loads of his friends and been introduced as his daughter.

  ‘Mum, stop trying to distract me. So tell me, the gin-and-tonic men?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that, love. It’s just a bit of fun. And gin-and-tonics, which are my new favourite thing.’ Then, ‘Amy.’ She takes my wrist in a surprisingly strong grip and looks me in the eye. ‘Pop, most of the time, he’s in the land of the bewildered but there are moments when he’s still all there. He’s the man I married, and even though I find things hard going, I’d never hurt him.’

  Instantly I’m sorry. Mum’s life has been a sad one but finally she’s having fun and, whatever she’s up to with her ganky earrings and gin-and-tonics, it’s her business.

  64

  Tuesday, 8 November, day fifty-seven

  Today my tube from Heathrow on the Piccadilly line stops in a tunnel for twenty unexplained minutes, and I arrive late at Home House.

  ‘Too much to hope that Matthew Carlisle isn’t here yet?’ I ask Mihaela, the receptionist.

  ‘He’s here,’ she says. ‘And looking lush. In the small meeting room on the third floor.’

  I rush upstairs, all apologies, and Matthew Carlisle stands up, then leans down to kiss my cheek. He’s smooth-jawed and smells like a mojito. Guerlain Homme, if I’m not mistaken. ‘Um, hi.’ This is the first time I’ve seen him since that unsettling sexy dream and it’s an effort to deal with the real man instead of the cad who had seduced me in a Marks & Spencer’s cubicle.

  Lurking behind him is his brother. At this stage it no longer seems perplexing that he’s always in attendance. No fear of Dante trying to kiss me, which suits me fine. Instead he gives a brusque nod and a terse ‘Amy’.

  ‘Dante,’ I reply, and despite everything, it gives me a small squeeze of childish pleasure to see him wince. I will never call him Dan.

  ‘So?’ Matthew looks happy and hopeful. ‘You think the photos worked?’

  ‘There was no mention of Sharmaine,’ I say. ‘The shift has definitely started.’

  ‘Safe to say we’ve turned a corner?’ Matthew is bright-eyed.

  Quickly I begin managing expectations. ‘Those photos were a very good start, Matthew. But remember what I keep saying. This will be long and slow.’

  ‘Long and slow?’ He fixes me with his liquid eyes. And, honestly, I don’t know if I’m still in the dream hangover, but that sounds suggestive. ‘Okay.’ He’s suddenly mournful. ‘So be it.’

  I clear my throat and find my groove. ‘Building on those photos, I’ve tickets for you and your kids for the preview of the new Disney film on Thursday evening. No need to organize paparazzi, they’ll have official photographers. Also local news cameras, so say a few words. I’ve prepared some innocuous remarks. Don’t deviate too far.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘How about a trip to Lapland early December? To meet Santa. You and the kids?’

  ‘Um, sure.’

  ‘The One Show will have you on to talk about it.’ I run through various other proposals, all part of the m
osaic that will eventually form the new, rebranded Matthew Carlisle.

  ‘Fine, and now I really have to go to work,’ Matthew said.

  ‘Okay. See you both on Friday night in Brighton.’

  65

  Thursday, 10 November, day fifty-nine

  ‘Deserted beach, Koh Samui’ is the caption on the latest photo on Raffie Geras’s timeline. Hugh and Raffie are sitting on soft white sands. She’s snuggled between his legs, her back against his stomach, his arms tightly around her. They’re both laughing – and why wouldn’t they be, considering their proximity to crystal clear turquoise water and thickets of palm trees?

  Mind you, their beach can’t have been that deserted if they managed to get someone to take the photo. This gives me a sour satisfaction until I realize the camera probably just had a timer.

  More tropical loved-up stuff is appearing daily. You can nearly feel the sultry, humid heat of Koh Samui coming off the photo. Here it’s pissing down outside and already dark at four thirty.

  A mad urge hits to send them a picture of me, sitting gloomily at my desk, titled, ‘Deserted office, cold, rainy Dublin’.

  Hey, to counteract the steady stream of carefree tropical languor she’s posting, perhaps I should bombard the pair of them with pictures of my life!

  How about ‘Having a cold shower because something’s up with the timer on the boiler and I haven’t a notion how to fix it because that was my husband’s job’. Then there’s always, ‘Watching Inside the Minds of the World’s Sickest Killers with my Alzheimer-y dad who insists that I look like a dark-haired Myra Hindley’.

  But it’s imperative I don’t drive myself mad with this. I’ve a duty to the girls to stay sane.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Alastair walks into the office.

  ‘Where were you?’ I’ve been on my own in the office for over an hour and I don’t like it.

  ‘Getting man-scaped. Brighton tomorrow. Need to be ready for action.’

  ‘Did it not work out with Sharmaine King?’ Then, ‘That’s the single most naive question I’ve ever asked. When would that stop you?’

  ‘I’m a serial monogomist, if you don’t mind.’ He’s quite huffy. ‘I’m not a cheater. And Sharmaine broke my heart.’

  ‘Which is why you’re all set for action tomorrow night?’

  ‘Shur, lookit, life goes on. But, yeah, Sharmaine didn’t want me.’

  ‘Lifetime first?’

  ‘Course not. I’m always falling in love with women who don’t want me. Don’t even notice me!’ Suddenly he sees the picture on my screen. ‘Oh, shit. Amy, stop stalking them.’

  I wish I could. ‘I’m thinking of sending them photos of my life. Like “Coming home after working an eleven-hour day to find there’s nothing to eat, not even cheese, because my husband, who used to collect my monthly delivery from the cheese club, is now in Thailand banging some babe”.’

  ‘Oh, Amy.’

  ‘Or “Me, my mind blown at the possibility that my mum is having an affair”.’

  ‘What? Lilian O’Connell, mother of five, having an affair?’

  ‘Stay away from her, you dirty article.’

  ‘Is there nothing left to believe in, in this empty, fucked-up world? She’s not really, is she?’

  ‘Probably just living life to the full, fair play to her. Is it five o’clock yet?’

  ‘Twenty to.’

  ‘Grand.’ I grab my bag. ‘I’ve had it for today. Getting my hair blow-dried, then meeting Derry for scoops.’

  ‘Give her my best.’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Stay away from my family.’

  ‘See you tomorrow at the airport.’

  ‘And I felt so guilty about Josh Rowan!’ I rage at Derry. ‘Now I’m fucking furious I didn’t sleep with him.’

  ‘So sleep with him now,’ Derry says.

  ‘How? I haven’t seen him in more than a year. And he’s married. But I’ll tell you one thing, I totally get why Steevie wished for Hugh’s dick to go green and fall off.’

  My rage is epic. And underneath it is a loss so huge, so terrible, that I can’t even look at it.

  ‘Any word from her?’

  ‘She unfriended me on Facebook. On any other week I’d be devastated, but all my devastation is used up.’

  ‘You two will work it out.’

  ‘I don’t know, Derry. I don’t even know if I want to. And another thing – I’m certain about this – I’m done with Hugh. Maybe if I hadn’t seen those photos we could have got through this. But that hope was ridiculously naive.’

  She shrugs. She’d always thought it was.

  ‘Even if Hugh comes home and still wants me, which I doubt, I’ll never get past it.’

  ‘You’re a survivor,’ Derry says. ‘And you’ll meet someone else.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I will never go through this again. Der, tell me how great it is to be single.’

  ‘It’s honestly the best. I get home and close the door on my little house and it’s just me.’

  ‘Don’t you get lonely?’

  ‘Never.’

  There is more than one way to live. I tuck that thought away.

  One of my many fears of being a single lady at my age and beyond is of becoming an unglamorous serene type. My hair would be shorn and free from colour so my head would look speckled with iron filings. I’d rise at six every morning and give thanks for blessings, and at Kiara’s wedding I’d show up looking attractive-in-an-aged way, like yoga people do, with pretty wrinkles but no jowls. Those women usually have astonishingly taut jawlines and their skin is clear and bright, like they’ve been lashing on gallons of ascorbic acid, even though you know they haven’t because they only use Dr Hauschka, which won’t even let you have a night cream.

  I don’t want to be that woman. Far better to be a drunken Botoxed mutton. At least there’d be a bit of life in me.

  And I see now I don’t have to go the way of the yoga ladies – Derry is still glamorous.

  ‘I don’t think I could live with someone else now,’ Derry says. ‘I’m too used to pleasing myself.’

  Derry has had long-term relationships, the equivalent of marriages. She knows what she’s talking about.

  ‘And if I do get lonely,’ she says. ‘I can always meet a man.’

  ‘You’re talking about sex,’ I say. ‘How could I do that with someone new? Like, look at the ancient old state of me.’

  ‘If you fancy someone and they fancy you back, you get overtaken by passion and you don’t care what you look like. I’m telling you, Amy, us peri-menopausal women, we’re crackling with sexual energy.’

  ‘I’m not. I’m more interested in having someone to watch telly and eat crisps with. Honestly, Derry, some of the happiest times of my life were lying on the couch with Hugh watching a boxset. Like, I didn’t know at the time I was living the dream, but I was.’

  ‘You’re used to being married and you can get unused to it. One day you won’t care about Hugh.’

  ‘Despite all that he’s done, that’s a terrible thought.’

  ‘It’s a terrible thought now. But give it a chance. Don’t be so co-dependent.’

  ‘There’s a difference between co-dependence and healthy mutual interdependence.’

  She looks at me speculatively. ‘Psychologies again? You know what? This has happened. He’s gone. And before that you were messing around. I know!’ She stems my protests with a raised palm. ‘You never slept with Josh Rowan. But, Amy, it was an emotional affair. Think about it – think about it very hard. You wanted something that you weren’t getting from Hugh and your “healthy mutual interdependence”.’

  66

  Friday, 11 November, day sixty

  It’s Alastair on the hotel phone. ‘How’s your room?’ he asks.

  I survey my mean-looking single bed and cramped shower-room. ‘A shithole. You?’

  ‘Same. Ideal if you were planning to blow your brains out. How’s your “view”?’

  ‘A dirty wall, a
bout six inches away.’

  ‘Still! It’s good to be here.’

  And, actually, it is. I’ve decided to work hard on being glass-half-full about my new normality, and being in Brighton for the Media Awards is good. I want to be around drunk people who are having fun. I want to dance and seize the day and stay up late and have a laugh. I want distraction, to connect with other humans, to know that I’m still alive.

  ‘Come down for a drink,’ Alastair says. ‘Let’s see who’s around.’

  ‘I’ve a quick meeting with Matthew Carlisle.’

  ‘Oh, the pep-talk. Yeah, listen, this hotel is crawling with paps. He really needs to be on his best behaviour.’

  Too right. But Matthew is alarmingly naive and needs constant reminders of the importance of optics.

  My cupboard-like room is in a basement annex and there are two flights of stairs to be climbed before I reach the lobby and take the lift to Matthew’s room on the top floor.

  The hotel is teeming with people, several already swilling down the drink. After I’ve bumped into a few I haven’t clapped eyes on in forever, I wonder, not for the first time, if Josh is here. Seeing him would be awkward, even thinking about him is painful.

  The top floor is another world of light, air and wide corridors. Matthew’s room is right at the end. I knock on the pale oak door – and, oh, my God, there’s a click and a flash of light from behind me! A photographer!

  Whoever it is, they’re holed up two rooms down from Matthew’s. I scurry down the corridor, give the door a sharp rap, and when no one appears, I call, ‘I’m Amy O’Connell, I’m Matthew’s publicist.’

  The door opens. It’s a paparazzo I vaguely know and I start laughing because it’s all so mad. ‘Len … ah, Lenny? Right, Lenny. I’m his publicist, you fool. Amy O’Connell, you know me!’

  Belligerently, Lenny says, ‘He could be diddling you.’

  ‘He’s not.’ I’m still laughing. I think it’s the adrenalin. ‘He’s not diddling anyone.’