The Break

by Marian Keyes

  It’s true that I’ve never been in her exact circumstances, but this sort of fear is familiar – the day-in-day-out dread when Richie left and there was no money to take care of Neeve. That was gruelling. Then the week-long attack of terror when I discovered I was pregnant with Kiara. Hugh and I had been together for such a short time, less than four months. Could you blame me for thinking, This is way too soon – it’ll finish us?

  But I’d been eleven years older than Sofie is now. I’d accumulated coping skills and was, fundamentally, a different kind of person, steadier.

  I say, ‘Why don’t you wait until you’ve seen a counsellor before you decide for sure?’

  ‘I won’t change my mind, Amy, I want to go to college, I want to be a scientist and research cures for things, I want a future.’

  This is the first time she’s ever expressed any ambition. In other circumstances, I’d be thrilled.

  ‘I’m sorry, Amy. For all of this. I shouldn’t have been having sex.’

  ‘You’re a human. It’s how we’ve survived this long.’

  ‘But seventeen is a bit young.’

  Is it, though? In the eyes of the law she’s old enough. But my heart feels differently – my girls would always seem too young. If I could I’d coddle them in cotton wool for all time. Mind you … ‘When I was your age, I couldn’t get enough of it.’

  ‘Serious? No!’

  I’m mildly insulted by her horror and this close to telling her the story I’d told Alastair, about making Richie steal the boat from Greystones harbour. Only that she needs solid role models makes me keep my mouth shut.

  But it really is true that every generation thinks they’re the first to invent sex.

  ‘At least Jackson and me used contraception,’ Sofie says. ‘Even if it didn’t work. I mean, at least I’m not a total flake.’

  ‘In my day,’ I say, and then I pause. I can’t believe I’ve just said, ‘in my day’. I force myself to carry on. ‘We’d no access to contraceptives, not even condoms, and we had to –’

  ‘Use crisp bags. I know. It’s barbaric.’

  Sweet Jesus. Crisp bags? ‘Not crisp bags. I was going to say we had to pull out in time.’

  ‘That’s nearly as barbaric.’

  I sigh. ‘Now we’re going to tell your dad.’

  ‘No. Please, Amy. Not today. Why don’t we go for food?’ Sofie is playing dirty – usually I’d be so happy to see her eat that I’d abandon all other plans, but this has to be done.

  ‘Then we’re going to talk to Jackson and his folks.’

  ‘No, Amy!’

  ‘Yes, Sofie.’ I’m not exactly enjoying this either.

  Joe does a disgracefully bad job of hiding his relief that I’m in control. ‘Thanks, Amy. Appreciate it.’

  I give him a look. I can’t help it – and it’s a mistake because then he feels he has to come the heavy. He glares at Sofie. ‘Aren’t you a bit young? You’re only –’

  ‘She’s seventeen,’ I jump in because there’s a chance he’s forgotten her age.

  ‘Oh, are you? Well, that’s grand, so.’

  ‘Who’s going to tell Urzula?’ I ask.

  ‘Does she have to know?’ Sofie says.

  I’ve back-and-forthed about this and part of me wants to punish Urzula – and Joe – for their neglect of Sofie. But Urzula is her biological mother.

  ‘What if she says I must have the baby?’ Sofie asks.

  I can’t see it.

  ‘I can’t tell her,’ Joe says. ‘I don’t have a relationship with her.’

  Well, neither do I. She’s not right in the head, and maybe I should have more compassion, but there you are, I don’t.

  ‘You’ll speak to her.’ I’m firm with Joe. ‘So, Joe, do you know anyone with medical skills? Who might, you know, be with Sofie while it’s happening?’

  He frowns. ‘What do you mean? Won’t it happen in a clinic?’

  For eff’s sake! ‘Not in this country. It’s illegal.’

  ‘Even the pills?’

  He is such a fool! ‘Even the pills. Listen, don’t tell Maura about this.’

  ‘When would I be talking to Maura?’ His scorn is withering.

  ‘Good. Okay, Sofie, let’s go.’

  ‘Where now?’ Joe asks.

  ‘Jackson’s parents.’ At his clueless face, I say, ‘Jackson’s her boyfriend. He has been for the past year. Call Urzula. Bye.’

  Jackson has already told his parents and they’re suitably concerned. They’re very nice people – it’s obvious where Jackson gets his sweet, mannerly nature from.

  Their relief that Sofie won’t proceed with the pregnancy comes as no real surprise.

  ‘We love Sofie,’ Jackson’s mum says over and over, ‘but, you know …’

  His dad keeps staring at Jackson as if he simply can’t believe this wispy boy has impregnated a girl.

  ‘Are you going to the UK?’ Jackson’s mother asks.

  ‘We’ve ordered the pills.’

  She nods. ‘We’ll share the costs.’

  Which is more than Joe has offered to do. But I’d expected nothing from Joe – a long time ago, he’d absolved himself from any responsibility for Sofie. If I let myself, I could burn with fury at his – and Urzula’s – neglect. But the only person who matters in this is Sofie, and so long as she doesn’t mind, and she doesn’t seem to, I can put up with it.

  There’s no point in my trying to make the world the way I’d ideally like it to be. It’s better just to get on with things as they are.

  76

  Friday, 25 November, day seventy-four

  None of the girls show up at Mum and Pop’s for the Friday dinner. They didn’t say they’d definitely be here, because no one ever does, but for all three to be missing is a sign of the cloud we’re living under.

  I leave half an hour earlier than usual, and at home, sitting on the stairs, looking like refugees, are the girls.

  ‘Mum, when are the pills coming?’ Kiara says. ‘She’s in bits.’

  ‘If I have to have this baby, I’ll kill myself,’ Sofie whispers.

  ‘Sssh, sssh, sssh, no one’s having a baby, it’ll be okay.’ With my bum, I shunt Neeve and Kiara out of the way and wrap myself around Sofie. ‘I’ve been tracking them,’ I say, and show her the delivery details on my iPad.

  ‘They arrived in the country this morning,’ I say. ‘They’ll be here on Monday.’ Hopefully.

  ‘So we do it then?’ Sofie asks faintly.

  ‘After you’ve had the scan and seen the counsellor.’ I’m adamant about this.

  ‘What if the pills don’t come?’ Sofie asks. ‘What if the Customs people won’t let them through?’

  This genuine possibility has been turning a flame-thrower on my stomach walls.

  ‘Of course they’ll come,’ I say heartily, because we all need hope.

  77

  Monday, 28 November, day seventy-seven

  On Monday morning I knock on Neeve’s door. Usually I’d be treated to a torrent of abuse for such a liberty but we’ve passed a sombre weekend.

  ‘Neevey? Any chance you can stay home today?’

  ‘Why – oh! In case the pills arrive? Sure.’

  ‘Have you stuff on?’

  ‘This is more important. I’ll text you when they come.’

  Sofie trips down sleepily from her attic room, still in her PJs.

  ‘Sweetie,’ I say. ‘Clothes.’

  ‘I can’t go to school.’

  I take her face between my two hands and plant kisses all over it. ‘You must go to school. I promise you, everything will be okay.’

  ‘Oh, Aaaaa-meee.’

  ‘Dressed! Get! I’m going to make breakfast.’

  ‘You are?’ Kiara’s bedroom door flies open. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Sofie says. ‘I’m not eating.’

  ‘You have to eat, Sofie.’

  ‘I won’t eat until this is over.’

  What should I do? If I cook food she won�
��t eat it. But to do nothing feels irresponsible. Although I’m already late for work … Then I spot Kiara’s hopeful little face. ‘Hash browns?’ she says.

  And I can’t help but laugh.

  All morning I keep checking my phone, awaiting a joyous They’re here! from Neeve. But nothing. And there’s no notification on the courier site.

  At lunchtime I ring. ‘Neevey?’

  ‘Not yet, Mum. I’ve a bad feeling about this.’

  So do I.

  She says, ‘Maybe they’ll come tomorrow.’

  But I suspect they won’t.

  ‘I don’t –’ Alastair chokes – ‘I don’t fucking believe it.’

  Tim and I whip around to look at him. ‘What?!’

  Alastair, still staring at his screen, swallows hard. ‘Amy. It’s Lilian O’Connell, mother of five. Again!’

  It’s Mum’s second vlog, about her getting extensions and highlights. She’s talking about her new look. ‘I’d like to think I look like Mary Berry. Except …’ she drops her eyes modestly, then raises them again in a flash of devilment ‘… younger!’

  Tim gasps. ‘Did she just diss Mary Berry?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alastair shakes his head in admiration. ‘And yet she didn’t. There’s respect in there, charm, a bit of pretender-to-the-throne. It’s all going on with Lilian O’Connell, mother of five.’

  ‘What’s this on?’ I ask Alastair, thinking he’ll say Facebook or Twitter.

  But he says, ‘The Independent. They’ve done a link to it.’

  The Independent is the biggest paper in Ireland.

  ‘Serious shiz!’ Thamy has materialized from Reception.

  Neeve is the one I should ring, this is all her work, but Mum gets the call.

  ‘Mum? Do you know about your vlog?’

  ‘Yes! Neeve says I’m gaining traction. Amy, can I ask you a question – which is a stupid thing to say, because I’m already asking you one. Anyway, what exactly is traction? Neeve keeps saying I’m gaining it, but if I ask her to explain, she’ll bite the head off me. Is it anything to do with weight?’

  ‘Not weight. Listen, the Independent have done a link to your vlog!’

  ‘The paper?’ Her voice is hushed with awe. ‘I’m in the paper?’

  ‘Um, Neeve will explain it to you.’

  ‘Amy, as I have you …’

  Shite. I know what’s coming.

  ‘… any chance you’d do a couple of hours tonight? I’d love to have a few celebratory G-and-Ts.’

  I’d rather set myself on fire, but then again, I’m feeling that way already.

  ‘Nine weeks,’ the ultrasound technician says to Sofie. ‘You’re nine weeks pregnant.’

  ‘Do you mean nine weeks since her last period?’ I ask. This is important.

  ‘Yes.’

  Okay, that’s a relief.

  78

  Tuesday, 29 November, day seventy-eight

  Tuesday morning, I’ve landed at Heathrow, switched my phone back on and there’s a text from Neeve: Call me.

  My heart plummets but there’s an odd relief. Now I know the worst.

  ‘Neevey?’

  ‘No pills, Mum. But a scary letter from the …’ a rustle of paper ‘… the Customs people. Something about the Customs Consolidation Act. They say they’ve seized the pills. Someone from the Enforcement Unit at the Health Products Regulatory Authority will be in touch shortly. Will you be sent to prison, Mum?’

  ‘Ah, no.’

  ‘Isn’t that fucking decent of them?’ Then, ‘I don’t know why they have to be so fucking scary!’ Her voice is trembling and she sounds tearful.

  ‘It’s fine, sweetie, it is.’

  ‘Is it?’ She sniffs. ‘Time for plan B, I guess.’

  But there’s no point asking her what that is, I’m the one who’s meant to know.

  It’s not until early afternoon that I get a long enough gap to make the necessary calls.

  ‘Can I make an appointment for my daughter?’ It’s just easier to say Sofie is my daughter and, funnily enough, of the three girls, she’s the only one who shares my surname. ‘For the … um, pills version. For as soon as possible.’

  ‘What was the date of her last period? She needs to come in for a scan. We have an appointment today at –’

  ‘Um, no. She lives in Ireland. But she had a scan there yesterday.’

  ‘We need our own scan. Which we can schedule for the same day as the procedure. But if she’s more than ten weeks pregnant –’ it’s still profoundly shocking to hear little Sofie described as pregnant – ‘the pills are no longer safe.’

  ‘So can I book? For as soon as possible.’

  There’s a chance – admittedly tiny – that after seeing the counsellor Sofie will change her mind, but bird in the hand. I’ll just have to risk losing the deposit.

  ‘Let me look. Just to explain, we need to see her twice in twenty-four hours. We give her the first dose of pills, after which she’ll leave. She returns the following day for the second dose. She stays with us until she has miscarried, which takes approximately three hours.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Our first appointment is next Monday, one p.m., returning the following day at two p.m. Your daughter needs to be picked up by another adult at five p.m. This is important. She can’t leave on her own.’

  Oh, no. The timing is atrocious. I’ve got the Tabitha Wilton/Room press launch on Tuesday at five o’clock. It’s far too late to change it. ‘I may not get there until seven thirty,’ I say.

  ‘We close at six.’

  ‘There’s no chance of an earlier slot?’ I ask desperately.

  ‘We’re fully committed.’

  ‘If I tried another clinic?’

  ‘Short notice but I can hold this appointment for twenty-four hours.’

  The next hour and fifty minutes are spent talking with clinics in the London area and none of them can see Sofie within the week, so I end up calling back the first people and making the booking.

  I’m given tons of information, and the woman says, ‘Your daughter can’t fly home on Tuesday night. Not with an afternoon appointment. We can give you the names of local B-and-Bs.’ Then she stresses again, ‘She must be picked up by another adult.’

  But who?

  Druzie’s away for at least another month. I consider Jackson: he’s sensible and kind and Sofie would appreciate him being there. But he’s only seventeen and looks even younger. Bringing him along as an ‘adult’ is too much of a risk.

  Maybe Derry could come. If she’s not working in Ulan Bator or some other faraway locale. I could ask Joe, but I already know he’ll invent some reason not to come.

  Out of nowhere rage spurts up through me. Fuck you, Hugh, fuck you for leaving me to deal with all of this on my own.

  He wasn’t to know it would happen. But in fairness, leaving me in charge of two teenagers – anything could have happened. He couldn’t have predicted these precise circumstances, but he must have known something would crop up because something always does.

  79

  In less than two hours I’m due to meet Josh, and it feels every kind of wrong.

  After flip-flopping about what to do, I eventually text him: When’s a good time to call?

  Within ten seconds my phone rings. ‘Sackcloth?’

  ‘Josh, I can’t see you tonight.’

  After a long pause he says, ‘Are you breaking up with us?’

  ‘Something is going on at home and I don’t feel … right about it, us, not tonight.’

  ‘But you’ll feel right about it on another night?’

  ‘Yes.’ Well, who knows?

  ‘Is it your period?’

  That elicits a surprise laugh from me.

  ‘Because I don’t mind,’ he says. ‘If you don’t want to, you know, we don’t have to. But we could still, like …’

  ‘It’s too complicated to explain on the phone.’

  ‘We could have a drink? Just a drink.’

  ‘No
t tonight, Josh.’

  ‘Next week?’

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Okay, Amy.’ His tone softens. ‘I’ll cross my fingers. And if you change your mind …’

  ‘Okay, yes,’ I say suddenly. ‘Tonight, but just a drink. In the hotel bar.’ Torn between sorrow and the need for comfort, I go for comfort.

  He’s waiting in a corner of the residents’ bar in the small hotel in Marylebone. When he sees me he jumps up, his expression both wary and concerned. Solicitously he removes my coat and hands me a drink but I sense his anxiety. And maybe impatience.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks, when I’m settled.

  ‘Fine. Like, there’s nothing wrong with me, health-wise or anything.’

  He’s tense, waiting to hear.

  ‘It’s hard to put this into words … There’s a situation. Not in my life. But with a young woman in my care and … I’ve already said too much.’

  ‘A young woman in your care?’ he prompts.

  ‘Is pregnant. And she’s not having the baby.’

  ‘She’s having an abortion?’

  ‘It’s the right thing for her. I’m pro-choice. Are you?’

  He seems startled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You Brits,’ I say. ‘You’re so lucky to be free of all that guilt and shame.’

  ‘Catholic upbringing?’

  ‘Not really. Mum and Pop weren’t big God-botherers. But living in Ireland, it’s impossible to escape the shame. It hangs in the air.’

  ‘You can’t really blame the air for the shame. The shame is a by-product of Irish laws. Fourteen years in jail for taking a pill? That’s quite a judgement.’

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘I’d never thought of it like that. Anyway, I don’t know exactly how to put this but it feels … unseemly for me, a married woman, to go to a hotel with you, a married man, when a young woman in my care is going to have an abortion. It feels all a bit, you know …’ I pause ‘… Sodom and Gomorrah.’

  His expression is impossible to decipher. All I know is that he isn’t conflicted like I am.

  ‘Amy.’ He chooses his words carefully. ‘I’m not being my best self. But you’re doing nothing wrong. You’re on time off.’